The Butterfly Effect 0
by Michael2
Summary: Prequel A boy discovers his ability to relive parts of his life.
1. Prologue August 31, 1985

**August 31, 1985**

Jason Treborn adjusts the timer on the Kodak camera resting on the steel tripod and makes a last-second check to see if the film reel had been loaded properly. He looks towards his wife and son, both sitting on a bench in a public park.

"Get ready," he says. "Camera's gonna flash in ten seconds."

He sits, with his arm around his wife and his son sitting on his lap. This Saturday is a special treat for him, a temporary getaway from the hectic pressures of his job. A job in which he is very good at, where his boss and co-workers say that he is without peer. He pushes those thoughts aside. Today, they do not exist.

The Kodak flashes precisely on schedule.

Jason suddenly looks around.

"I made it!" he says. "I'm back. I won't let those bastards ruin everything."

"What's going on?" asks his wife.

"I'm gonna make sure no one takes away my company. I just need a pen and pa-aww!"

He suddenly clutches his head, which pounds like jackhammers. Blood trickles down his nose.

He then falls forward.

"Jason!" yells his wife. "Someone call 911!"


	2. Candles

**September 13, 1964**

Jason Treborn looks around and knows that something is not right.

He looks at the kitchen. At present, there is only a dining table and a refrigerator. Walking over to the dining table and climbing up the chair, he sees crumbs of a birthday cake.

"Where they go?" asks the new five-year-old.

A boy, about thirteen years of age, looks at Jason from the kitchen. "They went home," he says.

"They leave after I blow candles? They no say goodbye? Why they go, Scott?"

"They were here for a couple of hours," replies Scott.

"What about my presents?"

"You unwrapped them. I helped you put them in your room. Your five years old already; you should remember."

"I didn't unwrap presents yet."

"What's going on?" asks a voice coming from a clearly older man.

"Jason's playing some sort of game, Dad," says Scott. "He's pretending he missed his birthday party or something."

"Is he?" asks Chris Treborn. The thirty-seven-year-old man approaches his younger son. "How was your birthday party?"

"Everyone come," says Jason. "I blow candle and they go away."

"Don't you remember playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey."

"No. Why everyone go home? No fun?"

Chris stares silently.

"What is it, Dad?" asks Scott.

"I don't know."

"Listen, Dad, I'm gonna go with Mike tonight to catch a movie."

"You need a ride?"

"His brother's driving us."

"Mike's brother's only 16!"

"Hey, Dad!" protests Scott. "That's old enough to drive."

"Why can't Mike's dad drive you? Why can't I drive you?"

"Mike's brother's not a bad driver. You know he sometimes gives me and Mike a ride home from school."

"What movie are you going to see, Scott?"

"Uh, _Clash by Night_," replies Scott.

"That's an R-rated movie!" says Chris.

"Come on. Some of my friends saw it and they said it was cool."

"Why can't you watch something more appropriate like _Mary Poppins_?"

"That's for little kids like Jason."

"At least it's not violent."

"Oh yeah? You took Jason to see that _Incredible Mr. Limpet _movie and saw a bunch of submarines got blown up."

"That's enough, Scott. You are not seeing that movie."

"Whatever."

oooooooooooooooooo

That evening, Chris enters his bedroom from the master bathroom. He sees his wife Lucinda, brushing her blond tresses as she looks in the mirror.

"I heard you arguing with Scott," says Lucinda.

"Scott wanted to see some inappropriate movie," replies Chris. "He's just pushing his boundaries. But I'm worried about Jason."

"Jason wanted to see the movie?"

Chris lies down on the bed. "He said that he doesn't remember his birthday party after he blew out the candles. He doesn't remember playing any of the games or unwrapping his presents."

"He's only five. He's just playing a game, I guess."

"I wish it were so. But you know my family's history. I'm lucky it hasn't affected me much."

"Chris, you can't just think that every little quirk means he needs a shrink."

"If it happens again."

Ooooooooooooooooooo

**April 24, 1965**

Chris signals for a left turn in his green 1961 Pontiac as he approaches the Sunnyvale Mental Hospital in upstate New York. The massive trees are just now showing their leaves, after months of snow. The whole trip is about two hours from the family home in Connecticut. The car's radio is currently playing a song by the Beatles, a British music band that came to America last year.

"Is this where Grandpa is?" asks Jason, sitting in the back seat.

"Yes," says Lucinda.

"Why can't the doctors make him better?"

"Sometimes they can't, Jason."

"Let's go," says Chris.

The whole family approaches the brick building where the patients are housed. The place is an inpatient facility for people unable to function in society due to mental illness. Screams and laughter can be heard from even outside.

Chris and his family sit inside one of the waiting rooms. The furniture is old, and the wooden table is covered with copies of _National Geographic_ and _Time_.

Chris approaches the desk where a nurse sits. "Chris Treborn," he says. "My family and I are here to visit Matt Treborn."

The nurse looks through some cardboard index cards. "Ah, Mr. Treborn," she says. "He'll be available in one hour."

After one hour, an orderly in white leads the Treborns outside to an area enclosed by a brick wall. Several stone becches and tables sit in a sea of grass. Several patients are already outside, those deemed not to be a danger to others, some of them feeding cats.

Two men approach the family. One of them is a tall man in a white lab coat. The other is an older man, about sixty years of age.

"Mr. Treborn," says the man in the white coat. "Who's the little boy?"

"My younger son, Jason," replies Chris. "This is his first time meeting his grandpa."

"Hello, Jason," says the man in the white coat. "I am Dr. Emmett Von Braun. I'm your grandpa's caretaker."

"Ah, Jason," says the other man, bending down. "I remember when Chris and Lucinda brought you over. You played hide and seek with the staff. It was only a few months before that whole situation with those missiles in Cuba turned into complete shit. At least it's good to know you made it."

"Does he still talk about the future?" asks Lucinda.

"Ah, no," replies Dr. Von Braun. "He stopped referring to future events after that Cuban Missile Crisis was over. Thank God your father-in-law was wrong about that. Of course, he's a lot less interesting without trying to predict the future. I remember when government agents came to interview him a few years ago."

"That whole thing still scares me," says Scott. "We almost blew ourselves up."

"We did do that," Matt says to his grandson. "It was something that had to be done. Of course, that bastard vice president Kennedy had me committed here. So what if I ended up in a coma for a few years? That's no reason to remove me!"

"Let's put the past behind us, Dad," says Chris.

Ooooooooooooooo

A few hours later, the Treborns walk back to their car parked in the parking lot.

"How did you like visiting?" asks Chris.

"He don't seem sick to me," replies Jason.

"I don't know why we should bother to visit him," says Scott. "He's just a crazy old man."

"Don't you speak about your grandpa like that," scolds Chris, unlocking the door to the Pontiac. "He's sick and you might get sick like that too."

"Whatever."

oooooooooooo

**September 13, 1969**

Ten-year-old Jason Treborn looks around and wonders where the hell he is. Below him is bare dirt. Around him steel columns and pipes and a wall.

He looks around for an opening. Crawling through the dirt, he finds an opening. He emerges to an enclosed space. Grass covers the ground. An oak tree grows in the center, with a rope tied to a tree and a Goodyear tire hanging from the rope. Apparently he had been under the crawl space under the back porch. He had no idea of how he got there. The last thing he remembers clearly is blowing out the candles on his birthday cake.

"Whatchu doing down there, Ja-shun?" asks a three-year-old girl.

"I…I don't know," he says to his younger sister, Meaghan.

"Jason," says the voice of a boy about his age. "Everyone's inside!"

"Coming, Neil," he calls out.

Oooooooooooooo

**December 25, 1969**

Chris and Lucinda Treborn celebrate Christmas at Lucinda's mother's house a few miles from Mobile, Alabama. They and their children are there with Lucinda's siblings, siblings-in-law, nieces, and nephews. Many of Lucinda's relatives talk with the regional accent. A Philco radio plays Christmas music.

Christmas presents are unwrapped near the Christmas tree.

"A doll!" says three-year-old Meaghan Treborn. "Thank Gramma."

All of the Christmas presents are unwrapped. Scott Treborn smiles. He tries his best not to think about a possible deployment to Vietnam; he is on leave from the United States Army.

"Look what we have here," says Lucinda's brother. "An old Christmas photo album from '61!"

"Yeah," says one of Lucinda's brothers-in-law. "Before all them hippies and shit."

"Can I see?" Jason asks his uncle.

"Sure you can."

Jason looks at the photos. He recognizes his mom and dad and Scott. There are no pictures of Meaghan since she wasn't born yet. He sees a picture of himself. He was two at the time. He smiles, amazed that he looked like that once.

He then seems to fall.

He then looks around and notices something is wrong.

"What the?" he asks.

It is the same place, all right. The decorations are different.

He sees his parents. Walking to them, he notices that they are a lot taller. His grandma is also a lot taller, as is his uncles and aunts. He wonders if he had shrunk somehow. Everything in the room appears to be bigger.

His parents, uncles, and aunts gather for a picture. He looks and sees his brother Scott, who appears to be somewhat taller.

He notices that Scott appears to be a lot younger, in fact, he looks as he did in pictures taken when he was ten.

He sees some of his cousins – Fred, Eric, Mary, Sue, and Chuck – and they all appear much younger than they should.

"Scott," he says. "Is that you? What the hell happened? Why is everyone so big? Why are you so young?"

And then Jason finds himself looking at the photo album again. He looks around. He sees his older brother, who again appears to be eighteen. He looks around. Nothing seems to be out of place.

"Can I see?" asks a five-year-old boy whose name is Zack.

Jason gives the album to his cousin and stands up, placing his hand on his face. He sees red on his finger. Rubbing his finger, he finds out it is blood. He walks and gets a Kleenex tissue to wipe his nose. There is a small amount of blood in the tissue.

He throws the tissue away and goes back to the living room.


	3. Family History

**April 5, 1976**

"And that will be your long-term assignment," says Mrs. Mallory. "You will make your presentation in three weeks. It's a third of your grade, so don't procrastinate."

A bell rings, and the students of her class walk out of the classroom and out to lunch. Among those students is sixteen-year-old Jason Treborn.

He looks down the hallway and sees a boy with slick black hair.

"Neil," he calls out.

"Yeah," says his longtime friend Neil Cross. The two boys head out into the quad, where hundreds of students in this high school in Connecticut are getting their meals under a cloudy sky.

"Mallory gave me this assignment about learning my family history," says Jason.

"So you have to ask your dad for help?" asks Neil.

"Yeah, I guess."

"I've some business to take care of."

Neil approaches a tall boy sitting on a bench under a huge maple tree, its leaves beginning to turn red. He hands the boy a slip of paper.

"Here you go, Cross," says the boy, handing Neil some money. "Just like I promised."

"Thanks," replies Neil.

The boy then comes across Jason.

"Better luck next time, Treborn," he says, before seeing a girl with long dark hair. He puts his arm around her waist, turning his attention to other matters.

"Don't worry about it," says Neil, approaching the school cafeteria.

Oooooooooooooooo

Jason walks into the corner grocery store. It is a small store, selling food and candy and soda and cigarettes and, of course, liquor.

"Hey Dad," he says.

"Hi, Jason," replies Chris Treborn, who had owned and operated this store for as long as Jason could remember. "How was school?"

"Okay, I guess," says Jason. "My teacher's giving me this stupid assignment."

"About what?" asks Chris.

"Family history. I have to make a stupid report."

"So you need our help?"

"Yeah. But I don't want to visit grandpa in the loony bin."

"He is family, Jason. But so are we. And your brother and I are part of history. I came back from Korea, and your brother Scott came back from Vietnam."

"I just don't like history," says Jason, leaning back against a glass refrigerator door.

"It's important to learn about the past," says his father. "It can teach us lessons. I've learned from my family history, and so should you. Come, I'll help you. And your mom can help you with her side of the family. Did you know her great grandpa served under General Lee?"

"Sure."

"I have some stuff in the attic. I can get it for you after I close up shop."

Oooooooooooooo

Chris Treborn steps down from the wooden ladder with several dusty cardboard boxes, like ancient artifacts exhumed from an Egyptian pharaoh's tomb. He walks over to Jason's room.

"So that's it?" asks his son.

"I did research on family history a couple of years ago," says Chris.

"And I suppose I can copy your report?"

"Jason, you can read the materials, but you'll have to type the report on your own. I'll try to get the stuff about your mom's family later. When's it due?"

"The end of April. My teacher, Mrs. Mallory, said it would be a third of my grade."

"You're a good student, Jason."

"I made the honor roll the past two years. I'm beginning to hear from colleges all across the country."

"Just get your work done."

As Jason takes the dusty papers out of the cardboard boxes, he thinks of certain things he would rather do, such as going to the theater and watching a movie like _All the President's Men_ or _Sky Riders_.

_Of course, _Jason thinks_, Neil and the others have a shitload of homework, so it's not as if I have anyone to go with_.

He looks at the papers before him. He can read old notes about Ezekiel Treborn, who was one of the Pilgrims that came on the _Mayflower_ centuries ago, settling in what would become Boston, Massachussetts.

_Ezekiel's sickness is something that can only be described as a curse from the Devil. He speaks like a soothsayer or prophet. Indeed, every one of his prophecies came true. But he can not learn anything new. When he wakes up, it is as if he had been asleep for thirteen years. _

_I have spoken with the pastor. Even he can not say if this is a punishment from the Lord, or if the Lord is allowing Satan to do this to test our faith._

The passage was written by Ezekiel's wife.

Jason continues to read about Ezekiel's descendants. There were a few notes that stand out.

"Holy shit," he whispers.

"I have some of my pictures and notes from when I was in Korea," says his father, walking into the bedroom. "I'll call Scott and ask if he can send some stuff about his service in Vietnam."

"Thanks, Dad," replies Jason. "I'll copy these notes and put the boxes back in the attic."

As Jason copies the notes, he figures there is one person whom he can talk to.

Oooooooooooooo

**April 10, 1976**

Matthew Treborn wakes up. As his eyes focus, he can make out his surroundings. He seems to be in a strange, unfamiliar room. A carpet covers the floor, and there is a dresser.

He wonders if he is still in an underground bunker. His question is answered when he looks out the window and sees trees blooming in the spring. People walk, stand, or sit outside, all wearing sweaters.

"I must have done it," he says. "But why can't I remember how?"

Pushing away his most recent memories, he walks through a wooden door. Inside is a bathroom, with a toilet and shower stall.

The sight that greets him in the mirror is that of a man in his eighties, with white hair and wrinkles.

"What happened?" he asks.

The last thing he remembers, he was in an underground bunker, looking through some old photos. He can not remember exactly what happened, due to the chaos of that day.

"You're awake," says a female voice.

Matt looks and sees a woman with black hair; she looks as if she were born in Japan or China.

"Why do I look old?" he asks. He touches his throat. He _sounds _old, too.

"Dr. Von Braun will be with you; I'm new here. He's more familiar with your case than I am. Would you like to have breakfast, sir?"

Matt is escorted to a cafeteria, much like the one in that underground bunker in West Virginia. Breakfast is simple- scrambled eggs, bacon, Kellogg's Corn Flakes. As he eats his breakfast, he does not recognize any of the faces. A color television is on.

_At least the world did not blow up_, he thinks.

Another orderly- a man with red hair- approaches.

"Mr. Treborn," he says. "Dr. Von Braun will be seeing you."

He is then led into an office, sitting on a chair. A wooden desk is the centerpiece, and a Smith-Corona typewriter dominates the desktop. Framed diplomas hang on the wall.

He glances at a calendar, seeing color photographic images of various nature scenes.

What catches his eye, though, is the year on the calendar.

1976.

"What the hell?" he asks. "How did I get to the future?"

Two men enter the room. One of them is tall, with graying blond hair, who appears to be in his late fifties or early sixties. The other man appears to be no older than thirty, and handsome.

"Mr. Treborn," says the older man. "I am Dr. Emmett Von Braun. This is one of our interns, Dr. Harlon Redfield."

"Hello, Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Redfield.

"Could you tell me what happened?" asks Matt.

"You were in a coma," says Dr. Von Braun. "It is now April 10, 1976."

"1976? And I just woke up from it?"

"More or less," says Dr. Von Braun. "How do you feel?"

"Tired, but I guess I should, considering that I'm eighty."

"Mr. Treborn, you're in the Sunnyvale Institution in upstate New York. It's a special institution for people like you."

"If it's 1976, I guess I'm not running things anymore."

"You do have a scheduled visitor," says Dr. Von Braun. "Your grandson, Jason."

"Jason?" asks Matt. "Oh, that's Chris's boy. He has a brother named Scott, right?"

"Right."

"I remember them."

"We'll let you know when your grandson comes," says Dr. Redfield.

As the two psychiatrists leave, Dr. Redfield asks, "How could Matthew Treborn know about his grandson if he was hospitalized before his grandson was born? Or did he develop his condition later?"

"He had this condition since he was here," says Von Braun. "But his condition is quite unique. I'll explain later."

"Yes, sir."

Oooooooooooo

Jason Treborn parks the green 1961 Pontiac in the parking lot of the Sunnyvale Institution. The place is familiar to him, as he had been here a couple of times to visit his grandfather. This is the first time he has been here alone. Not for the first time though, he wishes he could have used his dad's more recent car, a 1968 Cadillac. The engine is noisier than normal.

He walks into the reception area, which looks pretty much the same as before, except the copies of _National Geographic_ and _Time _are more current.

He tells the nurse that he is waiting for Matt Treborn. Minutes later, two doctors approach. They introduce themselves as Dr. Von Braun and Dr. Redfield.

"Your grandfather is in a visiting room," says Dr. Von Braun. "Your father did not come?"

"Uh, no. Actually, this is for a homework assignment. I came alone."

"He must trust you to drive all the way from Connecticut."

"It's only two hours, and our town's right at the stateline. So what is his condition?"

"We know he has anterograde amnesia," says Dr. Redfield. "It means he can't form any new memories. But what is weird is that he has all these false memories, memories of events that apparently occurred during his stay here, as if he was living a different life."

Jason enters a small room, covered in carpet, with some wooden tables. A bookcase with books stands in a corner.

"Hi, Grandpa," he says to Matt, sitting at a table.

"So you're Jason," says Matt. "You've grown quite a bit, although I guess it was what, thirteen years?"

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm still trying to adjust. This is my first day here, and my grandsons grew from a toddler to a teenager overnight."

"Practically, I guess."

"Why isn't your father here?"

"He has other business," says Jason. "What do you remember?"

"Why are you asking me? Shouldn't I be in the history books?"

"History books?"

"Yeah. If it's 1976 now, my name should be in the history books by now. After all, I led a nation through its greatest crisis. And we obviously survived."

"I'd like to hear it from you."

"Ah, the defining moment. The Soviets placed some of their missiles in Cuba. I had to do something. I ordered the bombing of the missile sites and the Cuban capital. Don't know if Castro made it. But the Soviets, they decided to retaliate. They struck us, we struck back."

"What happened afterwards?" asks Jason, curious about the story his grandfather was telling.

"I..I'm not sure. I remember being evacuated to a bunker constructed from an abandoned mine somewhere in West Virginia. After that, I ended up here, I guess. I suppose we survived."

"I guess so."

"You ever looked into a photograph, Jason? Ever really gazed at it?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Ever notice that sometimes, when you look at a photograph, you find yourself back there when the picture was taken?"

"Uh, yeah, now that I think of it," answers Jason, thinking it is a weird question.

"Those are doors into the past. Anyway, how are your parents and brother doing?"

"Fine," replies Jason. "In fact, Scott's getting married next month. I met his fiancé Dana, she's such a sweet girl."

"At least the world's still going on even after what happened."

"Uh, thanks, Grandpa. I'd better call home and tell them I'm leaving."

"Goodbye, Jason," says Matt.

Jason walks to a pay phone to call his home.

Ooooooooooooo

"Matthew Treborn is one of our most interesting cases," says Dr. Von Braun as he and Dr. Redfield walk through the yard. "In fact, we're treating him pro bono."

"Imagine not being able to remember anything new," says Redfield. "It would be like being stuck in the present. You wake up one day and find out you're a hundred?"

"That's not all, Redfield. I've been his doctor for twenty-eight years now. In the early years he had memories from the future."

"The future?" asks Redfield, clearly surprised.

"He spoke about future events, about his children being older than they are."

"And what did he say?"

Von Braun looks through some files that he is carrying. "The first time he mentioned having a grandson named Jason was back in 1950, I think. Back then, he had no grandson by that name."

"But he has a grandson by that name now."

"Yes. Jason Treborn appears to be sixteen or seventeen, I'd guess. I did ask him about world history."

"And what did he say?"

"He mentioned the Russians launching Sputnik in 1957, a full seven years _before it happened_. He mentioned the U2 spy plane incident in 1953, which happened in 1960. There are so many predictions he made. I have more of them in his file down at Records."

"What does he say about the future now?" asks Dr. Redfield, curious. "Who's gonna win the World Series this year."

"He no longer makes predictions. He stopped around October of 1962, after the Cuban Missile Crisis. His prediction about that was wrong; he predicted a nuclear holocaust."

"Wow."

"I made sure to store up on canned goods, even bought a few rifles. I dreaded that day. I was relieved when it was all over. I suppose maybe it was because Kennedy was running things. Matt remembers that he was running things."

"Another false memory," says Redfield.

"Maybe," says Dr. Von Braun. "Anyway, I might have you as his alternate doctor when I'm not available."

"Are you kidding, sir? This patient is an opportunity. There's none like him!"

ooooooooooooooo

"How was your visit with Grandpa?" asks Lucinda Treborn, looking into her son's bedroom.

"Fine, Mom," replies Jason. "He had a lot of stuff to say."

"He doesn't know reality, Jason. It's sad, really."

The telephone in the room rings after Lucinda closes the door. Picking up the handset, Jason answers.

"Hello?" he asks.

"Hi, Jason," says Neil Cross. "What are you up to?"

"I have to research this stupid assignment about my family history. It's for my English class."

"Yeah, I understand. I have to do this history report on the effects of nuclear weapons on history. It's a quarter of my grade."

"It's a third of _my _grade."

"I guess we won't be seeing much of each other except at school."

"See you later, then."

Jason hangs up the phone. He takes some pictures. He looks at one of the photographs. It is a picture of him and Neil, standing before a car. On the back is a caption.

_Neil's First Car, 1972 Chevy Vega 10/25/75_

Jason looks at the picture. While the car is not exactly brand new, it is eleven years newer than the Pontiac that he is driving. He remembers the event. He had gone over to Neil's to study for an upcoming test, and they decided to pose with Neil's car.

The picture suddenly blurs. Jason wonders if something is wrong with his eyes.

And then he notices the air smells different.

He also notices increased brightness.

He is not in his room.

It is daytime, and he is looking at a girl holding a Nikon camera and wearing a Bradbury University T-shirt. She lowers the camera, revealing her face.

That is Neil's older sister.

He looks and sees his friend Neil, and behind him is a yellow Chevrolet Vega, sitting on a driveway.

"Okay, fun's over," says Neil's sister. "You two are supposed to study, right? Midterms and all?"

"Yeah," says Neil. "Come on, Jason."

"Coming," he replies.

The two of them enter into the Cross residence's kitchen. It looks familiar to Jason, as he had been to the Cross home on more than one occasion.

Except there is one thing out of place.

"I thought you guys got a new refrigerator," says Jason. The last time he remembers being here, the refrigerator was green, not white.

"Uh, no," says Neil. "Want to study here or in my room?"

Jason looks at a newspaper sitting on the kitchen table, glancing briefly at the articles.

He then looks at the date.

October 25, 1975.

The boy is confused. Last he remembers, it was 1976.

_Was it a dream or something?_

He follows Neil.

Suddenly, images flash by, sights, sounds, touches, tastes.

And then Jason finds himself back in the room, with the picture of himself and Neil sitting on his desk, the only light coming from a table lamp.

"What the hell happened?" he asks.

He then recalls what his grandfather had told him.

_Those (photographs) are doors into the past._

Wiping blood of his nose, he goes to the closet in the living room for the photo album. He looks through the photo album, glancing at the pictures of himself, his parents, Scott, and more recently, Meaghan.

He looks at a picture of him blowing out candles.

_How do I do this?_

He stares into the picture. It then becomes blurry, jumping at him.

And then he is looking right at a chocolate cake, with five blown-outcandles embedded.

Happy Birthday, Jason 

"I'm five years old," he says.

"Yes, you are," says his mother.

Jason looks around, seeing his father, his brother Scott, his uncles, aunts, some of his cousins, and his friend Neil, who is also five years old. Looking around, the kitchen, the living room, the whole house looks so much bigger.

_What the hell is happening?_

"Why don't we open your presents?" asks his father.

"Uh, sure," replies Jason.

He starts tearing off the wrappers for the presents his parents, brother, uncles, and aunts gave him. Most of them are clothes, and one big present is a die-cast toy fire truck in its cardboard box.

_That fire truck is still in the garage, _he remembers. _I'm reliving my memories, my past_.

Jason eats the cake and drinks Coke and plays games with his cousins and big brother Scott.

_Will I have to relive eleven years of my life?_

He hopes not. After all, there are parts of his life he would much like to skip.

Around sunset everyone leaves. Jason and his family say goodbye.

"You like the party?" asks Scott.

"Uh, yeah," replies Jason. "It was great, you know. I like the fire truck."

Scott frowns; his little brother never spoke like that before. "I'll go to the kitchen to help clean up."

"Okay. I hope you and Dana have…"

And then all four senses flash before him in rapid succession.

And he is once again looking at the photo album. He looks at his hands, which now look typical for a sixteen-year-old boy.

"I can relive memories," he whispers. He places the photo album back into the closet.

About two hours later, as he sleeps, one thought occurs to him.

_How could I have told Scott about Dana back then if I didn't meet her yet?_

His thoughts jumble as he falls asleep.

Oooooooooooo

**April 17, 1976**

Jason feels the water flowing across his hands as he washes the breakfast dishes. He puts the last of the dishes away.

"What are you doing today, Jason?" asks his ten-year-old sister, Meaghan.

"I'll study for the day, and I'll hang out with my friends tonight," replies her brother. "I have this assignment due at the end of the month, plus two tests."

"At least I don't have homework over the weekend."

"You will in four years."

"Mom's taking me to the tailor to fit me for a dress for Scott's wedding. I can't wait to go. I never been to California before. Dad said he'll take us to Disneyland the day after the wedding."

"Meaghan," calls out Lucinda. "We have an appointment."

"Coming, Mom," she replies.

"Jason, we have to take the Pontiac," says Lucinda. "We'll be back this afternoon."

"Okay, Mom," replies Jason.

Once Lucinda and Meaghan were gone, he takes the photo album from the closet. He had some flashbacks with the pictures since his discovery. However, there are some unresolved questions about the nature of the flashbacks.

"We'll see if my hypothesis is correct," says Jason.

He looks into the picture of him blowing out candles. The picture starts to blur.

And then he is looking right at a chocolate cake. This one has ten candles on it, though. He sees his parents, his sister Meaghan, aged three, his cousins, and his friend Neil, aged ten. All of them are clapping.

He skims a newspaper lying nearby. The date is September 13, 1969. He walks towards the hallway.

"Where are you going?" asks his father.

"To get something," says Jason.

He walks into the bedroom which had been Scott's room. It still has his bed and belongings, instead of being a guest room with only a bed and dresser. A Beatles poster still hangs on the wall. He takes out a notebook which Scott had used until his high school graduation in 1969.

_Scott's still stationed stateside, _Jason thinks. _He hadn't gone to Vietnam yet._

Tearing out an empty page, he scribbles a simple note on it.

He then walks towards the kitchen. Most of the people are still busy talking to each other. Opening one of the lower cupboards, he finds several empty glass jars. He takes a jar which once had Heinz pickles and places the note inside.

He sneaks out into the backyard. Looking around, he finds a hole where he can crawl under the back patio. Below the patio is bare dirt. He spends over a minute digging a hole deep enough to contain the glass jar. He places the glass jar in and covers the hole.

And then his senses flash rapidly, and he finds himself looking at the photo album again. He can feel something wet dripping from his nose.

Checking the newspaper to confirm the date, he then goes into the backyard, where he remembers burying the jar.

It is a much tighter fit, as he is taller than he was six years ago. It takes a while for him to dig into the loose dirt before feeling something solid. He looks and sees glass. After more minutes of digging, he finds it is a Heinz pickle jar with a piece of paper inside. Holding the jar, he wriggles his way out from under the patio and goes back into the kitchen, already excited.

He removes the lid and takes out the paper.

April 17, 1976

September 13, 1969

I was here.

Jason Treborn 

"Holy shit," he says. "I _was_ back."

He goes to his room, taking time to take in exactly what he had been doing.

_Those other times, when I found myself in the photographs, I was really there again!_

Ooooooooooooooo

**April 30, 1976**

"For his bravery in the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir, my father, U.S. Marine Corps Corporal Christopher Lucas Treborn, was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross," says Jason Treborn. "And my own brother, Scott Matthew Treborn, made his own contribution to history, serving in a war unpopular at home. While not demonstrating the same bravery as our father, he served admirably, being awarded a Silver Star."

"Thank you, Mr. Treborn," says Mrs. Mallory. "Miss Galt, you will give us your presentation now."

Jason reflects on the past month. He had learned a lot about family history – he had briefly described his great-great-grandfather's service in the Confederate Army in his report, as well as Ezekiel Treborn's trip on the _Mayflower_.

And he learned about his ability to actually visit the past.

He is now interested in history.


	4. Bet on the Winner

**October 15, 1976**

The boys' restroom is small, with paint peeling from the walls and the faint smell of cigarette smoke. A boy is using the American Standard urinal.

One of the boys is inside a stall; he is not using the toilet though. He takes money from boys waiting in a line, handing them slips of paper.

"That's ten bucks on the Yankees tomorrow," says Jason Treborn. "And ten bucks for the Yankees on Sunday."

"Maybe you'll get lucky, Treborn," says Duke, who is unofficially the bookie for the class of '77. He hands Jason a ticket. "You haven't gotten lucky since junior year."

"Everyone's betting on the Yankees," says Jason.

"What will you do if we win?" asks another boy. "I mean, if everyone bet on the Yankees, and they win tomorrow, how will you pay us?"

"I've a cash reserve," says Duke. "Besides, you know I always pay winnings."

Jason leaves the boys' room just as the bell rings.

"You put money on the Yankees?" asks Neil Cross.

"Sure did," says Jason, going to his locker. "I'd better hurry; I can't be tardy for this class."

Ooooooooooooooo

**October 16, 1976**

Jason sits down on the couch just a foot away from his dad. The Philco black-and-white television is on. Game 1 of the 1976 World Series, between the New York Yankees and the Cincinnati Reds, is about to begin in Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati, Ohio.

"Dad," says Jason, "why can't we have a color TV? Neil's folks have color TV. Even your employees have color TV at their homes."

"I'm used to black-and-white," replies Chris Treborn, opening a bottle of Budweiser beer.

Oooooooooooooo

"And it's out!" says the announcer. "The Reds win Game 1 of the World Series!"

Jason looks at the score. Yankees 1, Reds 5

_Maybe I'll be lucky tomorrow._

Ooooooooooooo

**October 17, 1976**

"The Cincinnati Reds have won Game 2!" announces the announcer.

"The Reds are doing well," says Chris. "They might sweep the whole series."

"Shit," mutters Jason, staring at the black-and-white TV. If that baseball player Perez had not gotten that single, the game could have gone into extra innings.

_I only have five bucks left. This is setting me back a lot. I just wish I could have put money on the Reds._

A thought occurs to Jason.

_Wait a minute, I can!_

_Ooooooooooooo_

Jason looks through photographs, trying to find the most recent ones.

_Damn! I need to find a picture more recent than last New Years' Eve!_

Looking through the closet, he finds photo albums. One of them have photos taken of him when he was much younger.

_That's too far back_.

He then takes another album. It is titled "Treborn-Huntley Wedding".

_This one is from May of this year. That's only what, five months ago? It'll have to do, I guess. _

There are several pictures, both of the wedding in a church and the reception in a beachfront hotel.

He looks at one of the pictures. It is taken outdoors, just outside the church. It is a picture of him, with his parents, brother, sister, and sister-in-law.

As he stares into the picture, he is drawn in.

Oooooooooooooo

**May 29, 1976**

Jason sees the wedding photographer put down the camera. He looks around and sees his father and Scott wearing tuxedoes. The wedding party is all decked out in their tuxedoes and gowns. The bride, Dana Treborn, nee Huntley, is wearing her white wedding dress. The headdress covers her blond hair.

_I'm back, _he thinks. _I hope I can get the message to myself before I flash forward._

Jason hangs around as the wedding guests talk to each other. He sees unfamiliar faces shaking hands with the bride and groom.

After what seems to be a long while, Jason's father leads the family to a car they rented from Hertz, a blue Ford. Chris drives the car through city streets lined with palm trees. Jason is unfamiliar with the area; all he knows that he is now somewhere near the California coast, one of the beach cities.

The car stops at a parking lot, and the Treborns get out. Jason looks at a tall, familiar building. This is the hotel where they stayed – are staying - at, and where the reception was – will be – held.

They walk through the lavishly decorated lobby of the hotel. Many of the people in the lobby are well-dressed, as they had come from the wedding.

The Treborns enter an elevator and go up to one of the floors. They go through one of the doors. The room is more like an apartment, with a living room with color TV and two bedrooms. Jason recognizes this as the suite he stayed in that May weekend.

"So what are you planning to do?" asks Chris. "We have about three hours before the reception starts."

"Meaghan and I need to have our hair touched up," says Lucinda.

"I will stay here a while," says Jason.

"I wanna watch TV," says Meaghan. "It's in color."

"I'm glad Dana's parents are paying for this," says Chris.

Jason quickly finds a pen and some hotel stationery. He looks out the window, gazing at the Pacific Ocean.

A few hours from now, he will go to the reception in the ballroom. Tomorrow he will go to Disneyland with his parents, sister, uncles, aunts, and cousins. On Monday he will be on a plane back to Connecticut.

He writes a message to his younger self.

_October 17, 1976_

_Here are the results of the first two games of the 1976 World Series._

_Game 1 Yankees 1, Reds 5_

_Game 2 Yankees 3, Reds 4_

_Do not_ _lose this note._

Jason Treborn 

For a minute Jason wonders where he will put the note so that his younger self will find it. He decides to put the note into the left pocket of his tuxedo pants.

_Of course, I might not flash forward like I did before, and I'll have to relive the next five months. _

He continues on as before.

The reception starts, and Jason sits before a circular, cloth-covered table in the hotel's ballroom. In the center of the table is a candle, and folded cardboard rectangles bear names. Sitting with him are two of his cousins.

_My younger self will definitely be disoriented. At least he's been to the past before. _

"So how are you doing?" asks his cousin Fred, a young man of about eighteen.

"Fine," Jason answers. "It's nice to get away from Connecticut, and it's good my brother's married and all."

He looks around as the wedding guests speak to each other. He notices that they are talking faster.

Then, all sorts of sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and touches flash by even as time seems to stand still.

Oooooooooooooo

**October 17, 1976**

Jason Treborn finds himself back in his room. On his desk is the wedding album he had been looking at.

He looks at the slip that Duke had given him.

"Yes!" he says in glee. "It worked!"

oooooooooooooo

**October 18, 1976**

Duke stands in the outdoor lunch area just outside the cafeteria. Crowds of his fellow high school students make their way as they eat their lunch.

"Well, well, well," says Jason. "Look who's here."

"Treborn." says Duke.

"Guess who bet on the Reds on both games?" Jason shows his ticket. "That's sixty dollars, I believe."

"Yeah," says Duke. He grimaces as he pays Jason. Paying sixty dollars stings, but not paying means he goes out of business here. "Better spend it soon. With inflation and all, it will probably be worth half as much next year."

Jason walks towards the cafeteria, smiling. It is the easiest sixty dollars he had ever made. Possibilities swirl through his head like clouds around the eye of a maelstrom.

Ooooooooooooooo

**November 26, 1976**

"Are we gonna see Grandpa again?" asks Jason upon hearing what his mother Lucinda had told him.

"We could see him," replies Lucinda. "We're actually going there for your appointment."

"My appointment?"

"You don't remember? We had you stay there overnight after your brother's wedding. You were confused and disoriented, not knowing how you got to the reception. You better get dressed now, we have an appointment at one and it's a two hour drive there."

Oooooooooooooo

Lucinda drives Jason to the Sunnyvale Institution. Mother and son wait in one of the waiting rooms. Jason flips through the pages of a copy of _BusinessWeek _as he sits down on the couch

"The doctor will see you," says a medical assistant.

Jason and Lucinda enter a small office.

"Dr. Von Braun isn't available," says the man. "I'm Dr. Redfield, one of the interns. I'm quite capable of advising you on this matter."

"I remember you," says Jason.

"Well, that's great."

"What's this about?"

"It's about your memory, Jason."

"It seems fine, Doctor."

"That memory gap you had was only five months ago. And according to your records, you experienced these blackouts when you were younger."

"I did? Well, I guess I wouldn't remember."

"Is everything okay going at school?"

"Well, yeah. I manage to turn in my assignments; I can't say the same for my classmates; maybe they need to see you."

"At least you keep your sense of humor. Perhaps your brother's wedding was simply a time of extreme stress."

"Are you kidding?" asks Jason. "I had to go dress up, get fitted, go to the reception and watch the picture slide. And just yesterday we had Thanksgiving dinner. Scott and his wife Dana came over from California, and I was assigned to help Mom prepare everything. I can't remember how I could have gotten through it."

"Most of us wouldn't."

"Dr. Redfield, does Jason have a memory problem like his grandfather?"

"I don't think so, Mrs. Treborn," says Dr. Redfield. "He doesn't show the same symptoms, including a fantasy memory of the future and the inability to form new long-term memories. Of course, it would help if we had better equipment than what we have now."

"Maybe you will in ten years," suggests Jason.

"You know the future?" asks the psychiatric intern.

"Medical technology is advancing; anyone who can read a newspaper or even remembers what it was like to go to the doctor ten years ago can see that."

"I guess. I don't think follow-ups are necessary as long as you don't have more symptoms."

About an hour later, as Jason sits in the front seat of the green 1961 Pontiac, he begins thinking.

_What if those blackouts were caused by my reliving the past? It has to be, since my younger self would be displaced when I'm in the past. I'd better learn to make sure how to adjust quickly if I'm displaced by my older self._

oooooooooooooooo

**January 1, 1977**

Jason looks around, disoriented. He is now sitting down on a couch, not knowing how he got there. He also notices that there are fewer people here than there were the last time that he can remember.

He walks to the kitchen where the New Year's Eve party is being held. Less than a handful of people are in the room, all in their mid to late teens. The kitchen windows are covered with icy frost on the outside.

He looks at the time; it is 1:24 AM.

_What the hell? Last I remember, we just rang in the new year. Hank's dad took a picture, and now it's 1:24?_

"You okay?" asks a girl wearing a wool sweater.

"Uh, yeah," he replies. "Where did Neil go?"

"He went home fifteen minutes ago."

Jason wonders if he should call his parents. They do want him back by two o'clock, but then again the roads might be icy.

Reaching into his left pocket, he pulls out a piece of paper and reads it.

Oooooooooooooooo

**January 10, 1977**

"Here you go, Treborn," says Duke. "Eighty dollars."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Duke," replies Jason as he walks away, dressed in a heavy coat. He had just put money on the Oakland Raiders, who won Super Bowl XI at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, California against the Minnesota Vikings yesterday, 32-14. Fred Biletnikoff had been named Super Bowl MVP, despite not scoring any touchdowns.

_Of course, going back to the New Year's Eve party to leave myself a note certainly helped. _

Life is indeed looking up for the seventeen-year-old.

Ooooooooooooooo

**June 10, 1977**

Clad in a cap and gown, Jason Treborn shakes the hand of the high school principal before going back to his seat. He and about three hundred other students are here for the commencement ceremony of their high school graduation, sitting on foldaway chairs in the middle of the high school's athletic field. Jason smiles, optimistic about his future. High above the clear blue sky, the sun shines.

"The future is whatever you make of it," says the principal, finishing the commencement speech. "I bid good luck to the Class of 1977."

And then the students of the Class of 1977 throw their squarish caps high into the air even as their families take pictures.

Jason walks to the bleachers, set up for this very event, to meet his family.

"Congratulations," says Chris.

"Thanks."

"How does it feel?" asks Dana Treborn, the wife of Jason's older brother Scott.

"Like there's a new chapter in my life, you know." Jason notices the bulge in Dana's belly. "I guess I can go on vacation for a while, maybe travel, before I start college."

"You got that scholarship," says Lucinda.

"Come on," says Scott. "We'd better take your picture."

Oooooooooooo

Jason suddenly finds himself somewhere else. He is looking directly at a towel. Looking around, he finds that he in the bathroom, sitting on a toilet.

After flushing the toilet and washing his hands with soap, Jason goes to his bedroom. The time is 4:30, about six hours after the graduation ceremony was held.

He looks through the notebook which he had used during his senior year in high school, which had just ended. Flipping through the pages, he finds a note from his older self, in his own recognizable handwriting, dated December 23, 1977.

The note mentions the winners of the six games of the 1977 World Series between the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Dodgers four months from now. Jason notes that the Yankees will win the series this year, unlike last year.

Below the paragraph foretelling the winner of this year's World Series is a list of abbreviations, with numbers next to them. Written above this list is the underlined title Stock Quotes 12/ 22/1977

_Stock prices,_ he ponders. _Plenty of possibilities. _


	5. On His Own

**August 28, 1977**

"Take care, Jason," says Lucinda Treborn.

"I will, Mom," replies Jason Treborn.

He watches as his parents leave the dorm room. He lies down on the solitary bed. This is his first night living away from his parents. He had brought a suitcase full of clothes with him, currently sitting on the floor. The dorm room is small, with only two beds- the other bed belonging to a roommate, Charles Heppleman.

He turns on a Magnavox television, which he had purchased with money he won betting on sporting events. He sees an image, _in color_.

He smiles. He can get used to this. It is a lot better than watching the black-and-white Philco back home. He wonders if Scott had felt the same way when he had moved away from his parents.

_No,_ he thinks. _Scott was awakened at 5 A.M. every day by some loudmouth sergeant. _

"You okay in there?" asks a female voice.

Jason looks and sees a woman with long brown hair, appearing to be no older than her early twenties. He had met her a few hours ago, when he first arrived in the dorm room; she is the resident advisor.

"Fine, Andrea," he says. "I'm just settling in."

"I know what it's like," replies Andrea. "First moving away from home. What's your name again?"

"Jason."

"Nice to meet you, Jason."

"What's your major?"

"Biology. I want to be a nurse."

"Awesome," replies Jason. "You're gonna take care of the bedpans and shit?"

"Hopefully not too often. Well, I have other business to attend to."

"See you later."

After Andrea leaves, Jason takes a Polaroid camera and points the lens at himself.

_Here's to my first semester of college._

He presses the button.

Oooooooooooooooo

**October 16, 1977**

The rat-tat-tat sound fills the room as Jason types away on the Smith-Corona typewriter. The hammers hit the ink ribbon, printing a letter on a piece of white paper.

_Damn, I've got to get this in by Tuesday. _

Looking at what he had typed so far, he notices a misspelled word.

_Shit! I have to type the whole page all over again!_

Jason trashes the paper, throwing it into a wastebasket that is nearly full.

"Still typing away?" asks one of the students who lives in a room next door.

"I just wish there was a way to catch mistakes before they end up on paper," replies Jason.

The semester is looking to be real tough.

Oooooooooooooooooooo

**December 15, 1977**

_Thank God it's over. _

Jason turns in his last final examination, leaving the lecture hall to be greeted by the cold air of upstate New York. He can feel the cold even while wearing a heavy coat, as almost everyone else is. Condensation is visible as he exhales.

After having to go to classes four days a week, some of them in the morning, and all the additional time for studying for papers and tests, he is finally done for this semester.

Checking his watch, it is 4:15, and it is getting dark. Some of the students are going back to their homes too study for examinations on Friday.

Walking along the concrete pathways of the college campus, Jason walks down exterior concrete stairs into the student union. Dozens of the university's students gather here to celebrate the end of the fall semester.

Already there is a party in the union's common areas. A couple of the older students purchase beer from a bar, while others stand on the floor or sit on couches. A couple of people play pool at a pool table. A Sony color television displays moving images. The song "Play That Funky Music" by Wild Cherry blares from stereo speakers installed in the ceilings.

"Jason," says one of the boys, wearing a sweatshirt and a coat tied around his waist. "How was your final?"

"I did fine, I think," replies Jason. "I spent nights in the library doing research and shit."

"Well, friend, I am glad it is o- ver. At least I can put this bullshit away for a couple of weeks."

"Yeah, I only have to worry about working at that pizza place." Jason walks over to a white top counter, ordering a Coca-cola.

"Hi there," says a female voice.

Jason turns and sees Andrea. "How was finals?" he asks, sipping the Coke.

"You know, tests, term papers, that kind of shit. Glad it's over. Where are you going for the holidays?"

"California. My parents and I are gonna visit my brother and his wife there."

"Where in California do they live?" asks Andrea, lining up to order a beer, with a colored strip of paper around her wrist.

"Tustin. It's near L.A., I think."

"Pennsylvania, for me. About thirty miles from Pittsburgh. Got to leave Sunday. A couple of friends and me are gonna go down to New York City tonight."

"I've been there." Jason recalls going to New York City for a weekend with some classmates. "A lot more expensive there than around here."

"Yeah, you can't find a beer for a buck down there. So, you having dinner at the dining hall?"

"Might as well."

"See you there."

Jason sits at one of the couches, finishing his Coke just as the song "Best of My Love" by the Emotions plays. He looks at her for a few seconds before turning his attention elsewhere.

_Gotta keep my options open. _

Oooooooooooooooooo

**December 22, 1977**

Jason sits in his bedroom at his family's home in Connecticut. Darkness is on the other side of the window, even though it is only 5:15. He, his parents, and his sister Meaghan are scheduled to leave for a flight to California early tomorrow morning. Already his clothes are packed in suitcases.

He reads over the business section of the newspaper that contains stock quotes, as well as a note about the results of the 1977 World Series between the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Looking through the photo album, he sees a photograph of his high school graduation seven months before. He walks over to the window, feeling the freezing cold of the glass.

He looks at the picture again, noting the brightness.

_At least it will be a lot warmer, _he thinks before flashing back.

Ooooooooooooooooo

**February 6, 1978**

Retrieving his mail from the university housing office, Jason walks back to his dorm room, looking through his mail. He sets aside the typical junk mail sent by merchants. "Hotel California" by the Eagles plays on a General Electric radio.

He opens his mail from his broker, summarizing the value of his investments as of January 31, 1978. He grins at the amount he had made.

_I sure am getting somewhere_, he thinks. He had just visited his broker to make some investments, after receiving a note from the future. He wonders how much more money he can make.

_Maybe I can buy my parents a color TV for next Christmas, with a VCR to come with it._

Jason picks up the telephone and dials a number.

Oooooooooooooooooo

**March 18, 1978**

Jason sits down at the dining hall with his tray, having gotten some scrambled eggs, bacon, a bagel with Philadelphia cream cheese, and a glass of Minute Maid orange juice.

He had been up last night partying at the dorms with a couple of dormmates; one of them had snuck in a huge keg of beer. They watched the film _Star Wars_, which had been released in theaters last year and is available on Betamax home video. The resident advisor had gone off on her own with a few of her friends. Jason can feel residual feelings from last night.

The eighteen-year-old briefly ponders what to do today. He could put on sweats and play basketball at the university's basketball courts. There is one fellow who is on the school's basketball team.

"Morning, Jason," says one of the girls living in the dorm.

"What's up?" he asks.

He looks at her face and her eyes. Something is seriously wrong.

He puts down his fork, feeling as if his heart sank. There is an eerie, empty silence in his mind.

All of those feelings come about upon hearing two words.

_Andrea's dead. _


	6. Improvisation

**March 18, 1978**

The students living in the D building dorm, and students from other dorms gather in D building's common area. Word had spread about Andrea's death, and they all gather here this evening for a wake.

As they gather in the room, some sitting down, some standing, they try to fathom what had just happened. Some details about her life- and her death- come out.

"I just can't believe it," says one of the girls.

Jason Treborn walks away from the wake and enters his room. He reflects on the events of this day. No one else is in the room, and neither the television nor radio is on.

Just last week he had met her over coffee in the Student Union. He ponders what might have been, had she not died.

_It doesn't have to be this way!_

He grabs a copy of today's newspaper. He reads the article. Without mentioning her name, the article mentions that a college student was killed in an auto accident, and that her name has not been released pending notification of next of kin.

_If I could somehow delay her for even a second…._

He will have to gather more details about this, find out _exactly _what happened.

_What if there is a fire and I lose my photo album? What if _I _die?_

Jason buries these thoughts and feelings. He knows that he can not screw this up.

Ooooooooooo

**March 21, 1978**

"Here's the information you wanted," says the Westchester County police officer, handing a copy of the files to Jason. "Why did you want this again?"

"It's for the school," replies Jason. "We just want to find out what happened."

"Basically, some guy plowed through the intersection at a red light," says the deputy.

"Thanks."

Jason leaves the police station, going to the public parking lot where his green Pontiac is parked.

Oooooooooooooo

**March 25, 1978**

Jason sits inside his dorm room, lit only by a single incandescent lamp.

He looks at his notebook which sits upon a huge pile of school textbooks. He reviews all the information he wrote about the car crash.

He then opens up a photo album., taking a good look at a photo dated 3/1/78

_Here we go. _

Oooooooooooooooo

**March 1, 1978**

Jason looks around, disoriented. The first thing he notices is a many people around his age, dressed in sweaters. He finds himself sitting behind the desk. Looking forward he sees the professor of his biology class.

_I must have been displaced by my older self. _Jason recalls having taken a picture of himself in his dorm room before leaving for classes.

He opens his notebook and reads the date header from a message, which is dated March 25, 1978. The message, however, does not contain investment tips nor sports scores like last time.

It is a message about Andrea's death.

Jason feels as a vice grips his heart. He takes a deep breath and skims through the page, learning detailed information.

After class is over, he wades through the sea of students, going towards his dorm room. Inside his room, he looks at a calendar pinned to the wall.

March 18 will be on a Saturday.

_I wonder if there is more. I have seventeen, no sixteen days to find a way out of this. _

Ooooooooooooo

**March 15, 1978**

Jason walks across campus carrying a backpack packed with textbooks. He is far from his usual route. His next class is an hour away.

Standing near a steel support column, he sees Andrea walking out of a building along with many other students.

"Hi, Andrea," he says.

"Oh, hi Jason," she replies, carrying a yellow plastic binder stuffed with papers. "What are you up to?"

"Well, right now I'm gonna head to the library to study. I was wondering if we can hang out Friday night."

"Friday night? You mean St. Patrick's Day?"

"Yeah, we can have a dinner and then see a late night movie, perhaps _Gray Lady Down_?

"Uh, no. I've made plans to go with my friends that night."

"Oh really?"

"Haven't seen them in a while."

"Well, uh, have a nice day. See you later, I guess."

Jason walks towards the brick building that serves as the university's library. Andrea is obviously still going to go out with her friends, as it reads in that note from the future.

Sitting inside the relative quiet of the library, he ponders his options.

Ooooooooooooooo

**March 16, 1978**

Walter Jackson leaves the store, carrying paper bags filled with clothes. He loads these bags into the back of a 1966 Ford pickup truck which is parked on a street in Yorktown in Westchester County.

"Excuse me," a voice says.

Jackson turns around and sees a boy appearing to be in his late teens, with light brown hair and wearing blue jeans and a sweater. "What do you want, kid?" he asks. "This truck ain't for sale."

"Oh, I was just wondering if you had your brakes checked," says the boy.

"Oh. You must have heard the squealin'. I am gonna have the brakes replaced- tomorrow in fact. It's this place down in New Castle. They've been doing brake jobs on my truck since I first bought it back in '69."

"Uh, what's the name of this place?"

"Bender Auto Services. Are you looking for a place to have your car tuned up or something?"

"Maybe."

"They're in the phone book, I think. Just find one with New Castle listings and it ought to be there."

"Uh, thanks, mister."

Jackson gets into his truck and drives off; the squealing sound of the brakes can easily be heard just before he pulls the truck out onto the street.

Jason watches as the blue Ford pickup truck disappears from view. From what he had read from the future note, Walter Jackson had claimed that the brakes failed. Either Mr. Jackson forgot - will forget- to have the brakes fixed, or the mechanics did- will do- a shoddy job.

Ooooooooooooooo

**March 17, 1978**

Jason sits down on a bench, feeling a cold breeze as he looks at the other side of the street. Across the street is Bender Auto services, a full-service auto repair shop in New Castle which does alignments, tire changes, oil changes, and brake pad changes.

He had been waiting for about four hours. His stomach growls, indicating his hunger.

He knows that tonight, Andrea will go bar-hopping with some of her friends, and would get killed in an auto accident on the way home. Walter Jackson had claimed his brakes had failed.

_Maybe he'll forget to take his truck in. _

His thought is dispelled a minute later when a blue Ford pickup truck pulls into Bender Auto Services. Walter Jackson steps out of the driver's seat, speaking to one of the mechanics working there.

Jason ponders what will happen. The mechanics might make a mistake, causing the truck's brakes to fail at that critical moment. Or Jackson lied to the police about what happened.

The teenager walks a few yards to his green '61 Pontiac, pondering these questions.

Ooooooooooooo

11:15.

That is what the clock radio reads.

Jason lies down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what to do. His roommate Charles Heppleman is out with his girlfriend. An open textbook on economics sits on the wooden desk.

He revisits an idea, and then rejects it. Stealing Walter Jackson's truck would only cause trouble. And yet, he feels the need to do something.

He grabs some notes he had written about what would happen. He then opens the closet, removing a heavy coat, and then heads out of the dormitory.

oooooooooooooo

**March 18, 1978**

Even in the early morning hours, the bars are still packed with people celebrating St. Patrick's Day. About half of these people are under twenty-three years of age, and some of them are even younger. Some yellow taxicabs arrive at the curb to pick up drunks.

Outside, Jason Treborn waits, feeling cold even through the heavy black coat. The bouncers are checking for identification, and the college student does not have a fake ID, unlike some other people in the bars.

The gray 1976 Cadillac which Andrea would ride in is parked in a small parking lot just down the block. Jason had considered stealing it, but he does not know how to steal a car, and grabbing the keys from one of the girls seemed too risky.

He watches his watch as the time of the crash draws closer. What could he do? He begins to feel desperation.

oooooooooo

Walter Jackson walks out of a dive bar located on a country road. He bar is popular with people around this rural section of Westchester County, serving an older clientele than the bars catering to college students. The man bartends there on Tuesday and Thursday evenings; he has a day job as an electrician down in Yonkers.

"Thanks, Walt," says a man in his thirties, his speech slurred. "I really appreciate it."

"No problem, Charlie," replies Jackson as the two men head towards his Ford pickup truck.

"Could you take me here so ah can pick up me car?" asks Charlie as the engine is started.

ooooooooooooo

Jason continues to wait outside. Only ten minutes left. He then sees Andrea coming out of the bar, accompanied by some girls, all of them wearing heavy coats. He walks to match their movements, knowing that his visage would be partially concealed by the visored cap he is wearing. He sees them walk to the parking lot where the gray Cadillac is.

Terror grips his heart. He frantically thinks. He considers trying to steal the keys away from them.

Then he comes up with an idea.

He rushes to a pay phone, pulls out a scrap of paper from his coat pocket, and dials a number.

"Westchester County Police," answers a voice.

"I'd like to report my truck stolen," says Jason. "It's a blue Ford pickup."

Ooooooooooo

Walter Jackson drives along the dark road, the truck's headlights lighting the way. His eyes dart carefully; he has no desire to be hit by a drunk driver.

"Aw shit," says Charlie.

Jackson looks into the rear view mirror, seeing flashing red-and-blue lights.

_They probably think I'm drunk. I'd better pull over. _

Jackson signals and steers the wheel to the right. Depressing the brake pedal, he feels something unusual.

_There's no pressure! **Shit!**_

Jackson engages the parking brake; it only has a slight effect on the speed of the truck. He figures he will just let the truck roll to a complete stop, meet with the police, and then have the truck towed. It would not be safe to drive without working brakes. After this is over, he will have a word with the people who had worked on his brakes yesterday.

Looking ahead, he sees a red light. The truck is still moving too fast to stop at the intersection.

He turns the wheel hard to the left, hoping to turn the truck around.

He feels himself slamming against the door, hearing the screech of metal.

Even without looking around, he can feel that he is tipped over on his side.

The police officer who had been trying to pull him over immediately radios for an ambulance.

Minutes later, Jason Treborn arrives at the scene in his green Pontiac. He looks and sees an overturned pickup truck, but no wrecked Cadillac.

Ooooooooooooo

**March 25, 1978**

Jason feels the blood trickle from his nose after flashing forward, receiving the rush of new memories. He looks around. It will take some time before the new memories are integrated in his mind. He wonders if Andrea had survived. He can only recall vague images.

Walking out of the dorm room, he walks to the common area. He can hear the common television on, a local news program to be precise.

"Andrea," he says, upon seeing her sitting on the couch. Relief floods his very soul. He – his younger self- had succeeded, and he will find out how as the memories adjust.

"I'm just up watching TV," says Andrea. "I'm having a little trouble sleeping."

Jason sits down without saying a word, silently thanking God for this.

"And that was the latest word on the aftermath of the _Amoco Cadiz_ oil spill on the coast of France," says a television news reporter. "In local news, Westchester County Police arrested a woman who sabotaged the brakes of her estranged boyfriend's pickup truck."

Jason looks with interest.

"Police say that Amy Cash, 33, cut the brake lines of her ex-boyfriend's '66 Ford pickup while it was parked outside a bar in Cortlandt in Westchester County," continues the reporter. "Jealousy is the suspected motive. Cash's attorneys have refused to comment so far. She is scheduled to appear in Westchester County Court Monday on charges of reckless endangerment and attempted murder. Now, on a happier note, a group of foster children had a field trip in the Bronx Zoo…"

"Some people," says Andrea. "What some girls would do if jilted."

"It's fucked up," replies Jason, knowing exactly how that could have turned out.


	7. Planning for the Future

**June 4, 1979**

Jason Treborn pulls up the white 1978 Toyota Corolla into the parking space, putting the gearshift into park and stepping out of the car. Clad in a black business suit, he walks a few yards towards an office tower in White Plains, New York.

He walks to the marble-floored lobby of the building, one of the tallest in White Plains, though dwarfed by the skyscrapers in lower Manhattan. Looking at the directory which is mounted on the wall, he sees the name of American Pride Financial Services. Using an elevator to get to the third floor, he enters the office of American Pride.

The front room looks familiar- blue carpeted floor, a desk for the receptionist, a wooden table with copies of the _Wall Street Journal, Time, _and_ BusinessWeek _sitting on top.

"Hello there," says the receptionist, a woman with ebony black hair.

"Jason Treborn," says Jason. "I am here to see Mr. Bright."

"Oh, you're his new intern, Come on in, Mr. Treborn."

Jason walks past the reception area and into the main office,. He had been here a few weeks ago, when he was interviewing for an internship here. He opens a wooden door into a small office.

Behind the wooden desk sits a man, appearing to be in his late twenties, wearing a blue shirt with a clashing red necktie.

"Treborn," says the man. "Welcome."

"Mr. Bright," replies Jason. "I thank you for this opportunity, sir."

"Professors can lecture, but here you will learn how things are done. I know this isn't a brokerage house in Manhattan."

"It'll do, sir. I hope to learn more about investment analysis. Maybe I can plan my own financial future."

"I have a lot of things for you to do, Treborn."

Ooooooooooooooo

Jason breathes a sigh of relief as his first day at work is finally over. If being an intern is this hard, he wonders what being a financial advisor must be like.

Of course, he does not know of any financial advisors who get investment tips from the future.

He walks to a pay phone, inserts the change, and dials a number.

"Andrea," he says. "Glad I caught you. Listen, I started on my internship. I wonder if we could have dinner together."

Ooooooooooooo

**June 16, 1979**

A door opens, and Meaghan Treborn opens the front of her home.

"Scott," she says, seeing her older brother.

"Meaghan," replies Scott, who had flown from California to visit his parents' home in Connecticut. "Good to see you again."

"How was the trip to the airport?"

"Crowded," says her father, Chris Treborn.

"Hello there, sweetie," says Scott's wife Dana, a woman with short blond hair. She carries a blond-haired girl about a year old.

"Oooooooh," the girl says.

"Hi, Chrissy," says Meaghan, speaking to her niece, Christina Anne Treborn.

"Scott," says Jason, entering the living room of the Treborn family home. "How are things going in California?"

"Great," replies Scott. "Dana, well…could you get Mom?"

Jason goes to the kitchen, and he goes back to the living room with his mother Lucinda.

"Hi, Scott," says Lucinda. "Anything going on?"

"Scott and I are having another baby," says Dana, rubbing her belly.

"Cool!" yells Meaghan.

"Congratulations," says Chris.

Minutes later, the Treborn family has dinner.

"So I started my internship at American Pride," says Jason.

"What do you do?" asks Dana.

"Filing papers, scheduling appointments, making phone calls to clients. I'm basically a goto person. I look forward to learning about the industry, maybe become one of them."

"So you gonna be rich?" asks Meaghan.

"Oh, yes," replies Jason. "You can count on it."

"I wonder if the Yankees are playing," says Scott.

"Let's finish dinner first," says Chris.

"Oh, Scott, did you know?" asks Meaghan. "Jason got us a color TV _and _a VCR."

"A color TV?" asks Scott. When he had lived here, he had to watch TV in black-and-white.

"It was a Christmas present," says Lucinda. "We still have the old black-and-white in the bedroom."

"I also got a new car," says Jason. "Traded in that old Pontiac, finally. It's that white car parked on the street. I could take Scott, Dana, and Chrissy to the airport."

"We would like that," says Dana.

"Don't spend too much, Jason," says Chris. "Gotta plan for the future."

"Oyessir," says Jason. "I am planning for the future, definitely."

Ooooooooooo

**June 30, 1979**

"We've decided not to tell your father he's been here for the past thirty years," says Dr. Emmett von Braun. "My God, has it been that long. Back then, this institution was surrounded by farmland as far as the eye can see. There was this guy who wanted to breed pine trees; his place is now being turned into a shopping mall."

"I see," replies Chris, coming to visit his father, Matt Treborn. "What do you say to him?"

"He still claims that the last thing he remembers, it was 1962, and that the Cuban Missile Crisis led to total nuclear war."

Von Braun leads Chris to a small room, painted white. An old man – in his eighties now – sits inside.

"Hi Dad," says Chris. "It's me, Chris."

"How you've aged," replies Matt Treborn. "At least you survived. What about your sons? Did they survive?"

"Scott and Jason are doing find. And I also have a daughter, Meaghan, born in 1966."

"I hope she came out okay, what with all the fallout. That stuff's nasty you know; it can stay for up to twenty years."

"It's 1979 now, Dad."

"What about your mother?"

"She died in '74."

"So they got her away from Washington before it blew. She wasn't in the helicopter with me when we evacuated. We lost contact with the helicopter that was supposed to take her to the bunker. I was supposed to flash back, not flash forward. At least you and your children survived, and Lucinda too – unless you remarried."

"Lucinda's still alive and well."

"What was it like afterward?"

"We did our best to make a living under the circumstances," says Chris. "Things were not _that _bad."

Chris goes on to tell his father more about what is happening. Matt smiles.

"You'll come back, right?" asks Matt.

"I'll try to fit you in, Dad," replies Chris.

He walks away. He wonders what it is like to not be able to remember new things; it would be like being eternally stuck in the present.

He also wonders what his father had experienced just before ending up here in the hospital. The stories still frighten him, even after he first heard it thirty years ago.

Oooooooooooo

**September 3, 1979**

"Ah, Treborn," says Mr. Bright as Jason enters the office. "I've a lot for you."

"Mr. Bright, I've been doing some research," says Jason.

"Related to school."

"It's about silver."

"I've read some people were buying up silver."

"The Hunt brothers, yes."

"You do your homework. The company has invested in silver as a hedge against inflation. Maybe those Hunt brothers are on the right track."

"Not exactly, sir."

Oooooooooooooo

**October 19, 1980**

The song "Please Don't Go" by KC and the Sunshine Band radiates from speakers as Jason looks out from the waterfront restaurant onto the Long Island Sound. A small boat sails by. It is a rare moment for him, as he is usually busy studying for exams, researching for term papers, or working at American Pride. His workload had only increased, now that he is going to get his bachelor's degree in Finance in less than a year.

The twenty-one-year-old university student looks at Andrea as "Please Don't Go" finishes and "Magic" by Olivia Newton-John starts playing over the speaker system.

"Such a nice place," says Andrea.

"You wanted a greasy hamburger at McDonald's?" asks Jason. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"That's okay."

"I have to ask you something."

Oooooooooooooo

**June 5, 1981**

"You feeling up to this?" asks Neil Cross.

"Of course," replies Jason, his voice a little squeaky. His longtime friend stands at his side, a great honor for the occasion. Scott Treborn just smiles; Chris and Lucinda look at their second son with stoic expressions on their faces.

Wooden oak doors open, and Andrea appears, escorted by other ladies. The twenty-four-year-old approaches Jason. She smiles, showing a hint of anxiety.

_This is it, _Jason thinks.

Jason and Andrea face a man wearing a black outfit.

The two of the are then married. They kiss each other even as the guests and the official photographer take pictures.

The new husband and wife then go outside. More guests congratulate them. The bride and groom pose with Jason's parents, Andrea's parents, the groomsmen, the bridesmaids, and just about everyone there.

Jason and Andrea then step into a white Lincoln limousine.

The reception is held at a waterfront hotel in Rye, New York, not far from the restaurant where Jason had first proposed. The main course for dinner is a Maine lobster tail and a New York steak. The dinner is followed by Jason and Andrea's first dance as husband and wife. The party continues, with the guests all chatting to each other, and songs like "Ring My Bell" by Anita Ward, "You Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC, "My Sharona" by the Knack, "Love Will Keep Us Together" by the Captain and Tenille, "I Never Knew Love Like This Before" by Stephanie Mills, "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang, "Crazy Little Thing Called Love" by Queen, and many others.

At around 9:15, Jason and Andrea leave to be alone.


	8. A New Life

August 11, 1981 

"If you invest in these mixture of stocks and bonds," says Jason Treborn, sitting behind his desk at American Pride Financial Services, "it will have a solid growth rate, enough for your retirement by 2011."

"Uh, thank you," says the woman sitting in the office.

"And if you two have any children, I'll recommend college funds. American Pride offers a lot of products."

"You sure you can make our money grow?" asks the man. "I mean, we had double-digit inflation for a couple of years, and now there's this recession. I might get laid off by the company."

"Sir, with proper planning, you can weather the storms ahead," says Jason. "I spent years studying investments and trend analysis so you won't have to. And with a diversified portfolio, you won't have to worry your heart out if the up-and-coming company you invested in tanks – you'd still have bonds which would provide steady income, and other investments may be doing well."

"Thank you," says the woman.

Jason offers his business card to the couple. "Either of you have any questions, call the office for an appointment."

The two clients leave the office. Jason looks at the time; it is about 5:20 P.M. He looks at his appointment calendar; there are ten appointments the rest of the week. He looks at another file. It contains notes about future stock prices, commodity prices, and interest rates.

He had built quite a reputation for himself in the company. Even during his internship, he had a knack for investment analysis that was literally predicting the future. For example, back in 1979, a few months after he started his internship, he argued that the price of silver would collapse in early 1980 because too many people were speculating. American Pride dumped its silver holdings in December of 1979. The price of silver began to slide; on March 27, 1980, the price of silver went down _50. _Jason received praise not just from his immediate supervisor, Mr. Bright, but the general manager for the White Plains branch and even a vice president from American Pride's Manhattan headquarters. Jason had been immediately offered a financial advisor position upon his graduation from the university.

Jason brings his attention to the present. The day is over; he might as well go home.

And so he does, driving his '78 Toyota Corolla to the home in Harrison, New York, that he and Andrea had purchased just a month ago. It is a typical home, having been built there as part of an encroaching residential development in 1980.

It is a typical evening home, with Jason and Andrea having dinner. After dinner, Jason watches reruns on the Sony color television in the living room.

Finally, as night falls all over New York, Jason goes to bed with his wife. The two of them snuggle up together, enjoying the warmth of their bodies.

"I have something to tell you," says Andrea, stroking her husband's hair.

"What is it?" asks Jason. "You want some?"

"I'm pregnant."

Jason takes almost a minute before absorbing these words. Andrea is pregnant. In her own body his child is attached and growing.

"How…how far along are you?"

"I haven't had my period since the wedding; as long as two months."

"This is great." Jason takes a couple of deep breaths, knowing what will happen in a few months. He strokes her brown hair. "You…you know, I think we should do an encore."

Less than a minute later, he goes in unto her.

Oooooooooooooo

**October 14, 1981**

"Everything seems to be going fine, Mrs. Treborn," says Dr. Ronald L. Hubbard, standing in the examination room in a medical center in Rye, New York. "The baby's growing typically for someone at eighteen to nineteen weeks."

Andrea Treborn looks at the ultrasound photograph which is pinned to the white plaster wall. She can clearly see the image of the fetus. She looks down at her belly, which is visibly swollen, rubbing her left hand over it.

She smiles at the image. The image does have a strong resemblance to a human. No longer can her child be viewed as an abstract. The image makes the baby inside her seem more _real. _

Ooooooooooo

**January 6, 1982**

"You sure have grown," says Jason as he sees his wife emerge from the bathroom.

"Oh please," replies Andrea, her hugely pregnant belly now the dominating feature of her body. "I wonder if I'll lose this weight."

"From what my mom told me, chasing kids around can provide a lot of exercise – she had three of them, you know." Jason opens the closet door, looking at the clothes hanging from the rack, including three sets of nice business suits. "Time to get dressed for work."

"I need to buy new shoes; my feet are so big I probably need two additional shoe sizes."

"Don't worry; I make a _lot _of money. I might even go down to the city to buy some from Bloomingdale's." Jason buttons his white shirt. "You'd better come along so they can measure your foot."

"I'm probably a size 13 now."

Jason glances at the bedroom window, which is frosted on the other side due to the typical temperatures of upstate New York at this time of year. He kisses his wife. "Have a wonderful day, sweetie."

As Jason looks, Andrea looks down at her swollen belly.

_Two more months, and then the real fun begins. _

Oooooooooooooo

**March 5, 1982**

Andrea feels something trickling down the inside of her left thigh as she sits on the couch. She rubs her finger on the thigh, feeling the wetness.

_Here we go. _

After changing her amniotic-fluid soaked panties for dry ones, she picks up the telephone and dials the number for her husband's office.

"American Pride Financial," says a female voice.

"Is Jason Treborn there?" asks Andrea.

"Mr. Treborn is meeting with a client, ma'am."

"I'm his wife and this is an emergency."

Ooooooooooo

"Don't You Want Me" by Human League plays on the solid-state radio in the white Toyota Corolla as Jason Treborn pulls up the driveway of his home. Entering, he meets Andrea sitting in the living room.

"Let's get going," says his wife as she waddles towards him.

"Labor takes up to twenty hours," her husband says. "Take it easy."

After getting something from the house, he leads her to the passenger seat of the Corolla, with "Don't You Want Me" still playing on the radio. Jason puts the car in gear and drives towards the medical center where Andrea had her checkups during most of her pregnancy.

The song "Keep on Loving You" by REO Speedwagon is interrupted by an inhuman scream.

"Jason, the baby's gonna be born soon!" yells Andrea.

"How could this be?" asks Jason, gripping the steering wheel as he passes an Oldsmobile. "Your water broke less than an hour ago, right?"

Andrea feels her entire lower half imploding. "Why is it taking so long to get there?"

Jason pulls near the emergency room entrance just as "Any Way You Want It" by Journey plays on the radio. An orderly from the hospital, clad in blue, arrives.

"I'm having a baby!" yells Andrea.

She is strapped to a gurney and flails her arms around as she is rolled down a corridor, knocking another patient's IV bottle against a wall. The twenty-five-year-old woman is taken to the maternity ward.

Just nine months after Andrea's wedding, one and a half hours after breaking her water, and ten minutes after reaching the hospital, she delivers a baby boy.

Oooooooooooo

Jason looks through the viewfinder of the Kodak Super 8 motion picture camera as he aims it towards his wife, lying down in the recovery room, as well as his newborn son, being held by his mother.

"This is Evan Lionel Treborn," says Andrea. He was born at 2:25 PM on March 5, 1982. He was named after my grandfather, and his middle name was after Jason's grandfather."

She smiles, placing him in the small crib. Jason makes sure to have a close up shot of his son.

_I'm a father. _

Ooooooooooooo

**March 10, 1982**

The doorbell rings, and Jason walks to the front door and peeps through the peephole. Opening the door, he is greeted by his parents and fifteen-year-old younger sister.

"Hi, Jason," says his father Chris.

"Dad," replies Jason. "They're in the bedroom."

Chris, his wife Lucinda, and daughter Meaghan follow Jason into the master bedroom. There, Andrea lies in bed. In a wooden crib lies an infant boy, swaddled in blue.

"This is Evan," says Jason.

"Hi there," says Lucinda, looking at her newest grandson.

"He's so small," says Meaghan. "He's the smallest of them."

"You were only eleven when Chrissy was born," says her mother. "It is you who have grown since then."

"Oh, by the way," says Andrea, "what about Scott and his wife?"

"We told Scott and Dana Sunday morning," replies Chris. "They still have to make travel arrangements. You know they have a two-year-old boy as well as a four-year-old girl, and travel can be stressing for children that age."

"I'm sure they'll be here before Evan graduates high school," says Jason.

"What about your parents?" asks Lucinda.

"They said they'll come over Saturday," replies Andrea. "They are excited. I mean, my mom is so excited about the idea of another grandkid; Evan's not her first."

The three visitors look at baby Evan, still sleeping.

Oooooooooooooo

**April 19, 1982**

Eating his lunch of a pastrami sandwich, French fries, and a Coke, Jason sees a man in a sport coat sit down, holding a cardboard tray with a hot dog drenched in mustard and relish.

"So you're a daddy now," says longtime friend Neil Cross. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," replies Jason. "Maybe you can stop by and see him later."

The two of them sit inside this café catering to people working in the nearby office buildings. The place is frequently packed. In Jason's opinion, the café serves better food than the Burger King down the street.

"It's so amazing, Jason. I mean, you're twenty-two and you're already married and have a baby and have this high-paying job. Look at me; I'm between jobs because of this fucking recession."

"I can help you manage your finances and even provide hints as to what industries and companies to invest in."

"You sure think of work a lot," comments Neil.

"Are you kidding?" asks Jason, sipping some Coke. "I mean it was nice to be off for a week after Evan was born, but then I have to go meet with all my clients and do research and shit, you know. And I have to finish lunch in fifteen minutes, if I don't want to be late with meeting with this important client. And three days last week I worked late."

"Is Andrea doing fine?"

"The baby's keeping her company; some of the neighbors come to visit. A lot of young families on our block. I bet we'll all grow up together."

Ooooooooooooo

**June 5, 1983**

The sun shines clearly on this playground in Harrison, not far from the Treborn home. Andrea holds the Kodak Super 8 camera, looking at Jason place their one-year-old son on a swing. It is a rare day, as Jason has time off from his job at American Pride. It is also their two-year anniversary. They will have dinner at the restaurant where Jason first proposed to her back in 1980.

Evan makes a noise as he is gently swung.

"So how do you like this?" asks Jason. "We're gonna ride in an airplane next month. We're gonna see your Uncle Scott and Aunt Dana where they live. You like them?"

Andrea puts down the motion picture camera. "I'm getting a hang of your hobby here," says Andrea. "We're gonna run out of room if we keep all these home movies."

"I can easily afford a new shelf," replies her twenty-three-year-old husband.

"No, we'll need a new _house _to make room for all your films."

"We'll have a new house someday." Jason carries Evan. "Did you like the swing?"

The three of them walk towards a black Lincoln Continental purchased just two months ago.


	9. Come From Behind

**August 30, 1985**

Three-year-old Evan Treborn looks at the flashing images on the Sony color television in the living room. "Transformers. Robots in Disguise," sings the tune as he sees the television show _TransFormers_, which is based on a toy line by Hasbro, which was licensed from the Japanese toy company Takara - not that a three-year-old boy would know such things.

Evan hears the door open, and he sees his daddy, towering over him. He is slightly confused, as his dad never came home when the Transformers were on TV.

"Hi there," says Jason. "Watching TV again?"

"Yes, Daddy," replies his son.

"Don't watch too much; it's only storytelling."

"Jason," says Andrea, carrying a load of clothes washed by the Kenmore washing machine in the garage. "You're home early."

"So? Why wouldn't I want to be home with you and Evan?"

"Well, mister, you're usually home late, never early."

"I work hard, babe," replies the twenty-five-year-old as he loosens his blue necktie. "But I'm taking a break for the weekend. How about the three of us have a nice little picnic in the park. You could use a break from housework, and Evan needs to be outside. Can't spend all of his time reading or watching TV."

Oooooooooooooo

**August 12, 1987**

The backyard behind the house in Harrison, New York is decorated with all sorts of decorations – balloons and banners. Wrapped gifts lie in a corner. A few children gather in the living room, along with some adults."I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2 can be heard playing on a boombox.

Andrea Treborn is here accompanying her five-year-old son, Evan. She takes a a glimpse of a chubby boy; he is Lenny Kagan, celebrating his fifth birthday.

"And how are you doing, Andrea?" asks Mrs. Kagan, Lenny's mother; she is a woman in her mid thirties.

"Great," replies Andrea.

"And your husband?"

"He's working late…again."

"It is too bad. He won't be meeting the Millers."

"Oh, they're the ones who moved their stuff here in that Ryder truck."

"Yes."

Andrea looks and sees a man and woman accompanied by two children, a boy and girl.

"Go on Evan," she says to her son. "Introduce yourself."

He approaches the girl and shakes her hand. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek. His face turning as red as a boiled Maine lobster, Evan rushes to hug his mother's leg.

"Don't go all the way, Kayleigh," says the man, appearing to be in his early thirties. "You're too young." He approaches Andrea. "George Miller. These are my kids, Tommy and Kayleigh."

"Andrea Treborn," she replies. "Evan is my son."

"And his father? Is he…."

"He works at American Pride Financial in White Plains; he has to work late today."

"Too bad, Mrs. Treborn. We're having a barbecue. Good old fashioned hamburgers."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Maybe you can meet my husband Jason later."

Oooooooooooooo

**June 7, 1988**

The wooden door opens, and a bespectacled man in his early twenties, wearing a white shirt, brown slacks, and a blue necktie enters the office.

"Hi there, Mr. Treborn" says the young man. "I guess I'm here to start interning."

"Welcome to your first day at work, Schnaufer," replies Jason. "Have a seat."

"Yes, sir."

Bob Schnaufer is a student from the same university Jason had graduated from. He applied for an internship at the White Plains branch of American Pride Financial Services. Jason chose him after reviewing thirty applicants, interviewing six of them. Bob Schnaufer impressed him the most. He had excellent insight on the securities markets – not as good as Jason's, of course – but a lot better than most people in the company. The branch manager offered the internship to Schnaufer at Jason's request.

_Then again, I wouldn't really know if the kid could relive parts of his life by looking at a picture. _

"You won't find things boring here, Schnaufer," says Jason. "You'll learn a lot from me, just as I learned from Mr. Bright here." He hands Schnaufer a sheet of paper which had been lying on the steel desk. "Here's a to-do list. So do it."

"Uh, yessir," says Schnaufer before leaving the office.

Jason steps out of his private office a few minutes later, approaching the coffee maker.

"Treborn," says branch manager Mr. Bright. "Have any news analyses lately?"

"I compiled a report on short-term market trends for the next couple of months," replies Jason. "I can print them out and give the report to you."

"Then do it right away," says Bright. "You know, Treborn, you are an amazing fellow. I mean, you were right to have us shift our assets to bonds and precious metals back in October of last year, before the market went down."

"It takes very detailed analysis, sir," says Jason. "The prices were too high for the earnings of those companies, and…well I guess I'll have to go get my report from that."

"That's history, Treborn. How about what's gonna happen this summer?"

Jason goes to the Apple Macintosh SE at his desk, printing out the report on an ImageWriter II printer.

Ooooooooooo

**October 15, 1988**

It is Saturday evening at the Treborn home. Earlier that day, Jason and Andrea took Evan to visit his grandparents Chris and Lucinda in Connecticut, and then to see a movie, _Daffy Duck's Quackbusters. _They have just finished their evening dinner of pot roast and asparagus in their dining room, which was remodeled a few months ago with a checkerboard pattern tiled floor.

"Listen, Andrea," says Jason. "I have something to show you."

"What kind of surprise is it?" asks Andrea. "I thought you wanted to watch the game."

"Let's go to the bedroom."

And so the two of them go into the master bedroom, which has a blue carpet installed just two months ago. Andrea starts to unbutton her blouse.

"Wait," she says. "Shouldn't we lock the door? We can't have Evan going in."

Jason takes a Polaroid camera.

"You're gonna take pictures of us?"

"You will take a picture of me," says Jason.

Andrea takes the camera and takes the picture. The photograph comes out of the slot of the camera, accompanied by a whine.

"Now what?" she asks.

Jason takes a sheet of paper from his study, writing a message. He then seals the envelope, handing it to his wife.

"What's this about?" asks Andrea. She looks at the envelope, which reads, Do Not Open Until the End of Game 1 of the World Series. "We're gonna watch the World Series? Are the Yankess playing?"

"L.A. Dodgers vs. Oakland Athletics," replies Jason. "We are going to watch it."

"What is in this envelope?"

"Information. You won't believe me unless you open it once the game is over."

And so just before the game is to start, Jason turns on the Sony color television and tunes in to NBC, which broadcasts the World Series. The pre-game festivities go on at Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles, California. Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola comment on the events.

Just as the first pitch is about to be thrown, Jason suddenly looks around, looking confused.

"Something wrong?" asks Andrea.

"Oh, we're watching the game," replies Jason. "This will be fun."

Oooooooooooooo

The ball flies right towards home plate. Jose Canseco swings the bat. The next image shows the ball flying, flying, going out of the field.

Jason looks as the Oakland Athletics score a grand slam – four extra runs.

Ooooooooooooo

It is the bottom of the ninth - Athletics 4, Dodgers 3. Dennis Eckersley is pitching for the Athletics now. Only one of the Dodgers – Mike Davis – is on base.

"Now batting for the Dodgers, number 23, Kirk Gibson."

Kirk Gibson approaches the home plate. Murmurs could be heard among the spectators at Dodger Stadium this evening.

Pitches are thrown, with Gibson missing them.

"The count is now 3 and 2."

Jason looks towards his son, who is now awake.

"Even if he hits, he's gonna be thrown out unless he scores a home run," says Andrea.

"I know," replies Jason, looking intently at the TV screen.

Eckersley pitches the ball, and Gibson swings. A _snap_ is heard, generated by a bat hitting a ninety-three-mile-per-hour fastball. Immediately, the outfielders run to catch the ball and deliver Game 1 to the Oakland Athletics. As the ball goes in the direction of right field, the right fielder runs, his glove extended.

The ball clears right field and goes into the bleachers.

"Holy shit!" shouts Jason, dumbfounded at what had just happened. Even with the volume of the TV at medium, the roars from the crowd can clearly be heard.

Andrea too looks at what Kirk Gibson had just did, despite his injury.

"Andrea," says Jason, "remember what I told you?"

"Yes," she says,. She takes the envelope with the instructions written on it. She opens it, taking out the paper inside.

1988 World Series

Game 1 Results

Athletics 4

Dodgers 5

Kirk Gibson scores a winning home run, bottom of the ninth, on a 3-2 count.

Andrea is even more surprised at what was written on the paper.

"How..how did you know?" she asks.

"I didn't know," says Jason. "I'm just as surprised as you."

"Come on. How could you know that Kirk Gibson was gonna hit the winning home run?"

Jason walks to the bedroom. He sees a Polaroid photograph of himself on the nightstand.

"What are you doing?" asks Andrea.

"Just watch."

Jason looks intently into the photograph, and then he looks around, a little dazed.

"Your nose!" exclaims Andrea, seeing a trickle of blood coming from her husband's nose.

"It seems to be a side effect," replies Jason, wiping the blood with a handkerchief. "I knew the results when I wrote that message because I saw the game already. You see, by looking at a photograph, I can relive that moment of my life."

"You…you can't be serious!"

"That is why I had to show you, why I wrote that message and sealed it. There's no other explanation."

Andrea looks at the message, predicting the results of Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. "How are you able to do this?"

"I'm not sure exactly," says Jason. "All I know is that if I look deep enough into a photograph, I could relive parts of my life."

"When did this start happening?"

"I had these flashbacks back when I was a kid. I didn't know what it really was. When I was sixteen, I decided to experiment, wondering if there were more to these flashbacks. I went back to my tenth birthday, put a note in a jar, and buried it under the back porch. When it ended, I went to the back porch and dug up the note."

"How did you know it didn't happen like that anyway?"

"The note had the present date written on it. Anyway, I started using these flashbacks more often, leaving notes for myself. Initially I left myself sports scores to win at gambling, and then I left myself investment tips. That's why I'm so successful in my field. My fortune was built on this ability."

Andrea sits on the bed. "This, this is a lot to take in."

"Everything will be fine," says Jason.

"You can take others with you?"

"I can only go alone." He wraps his arm around his wife's waists. "Everything is going to be fine. I have an edge on the future."

"What about taking me out next week?"

"We have to make babysitting arrangements for Evan, but I'm sure we can work something out."

"Did you know that from a note from the future?"

"Some things should be left to surprise."

Ooooooooooooooo

**March 31, 1989**

"Okay, okaywhat now?" asks Andrea as she looks at the carburetor of the 1987 Toyota Celica parked in the garage.

She turns and sees Evan and a cocker spaniel puppy, Crockett. Her son, who had turned seven a few weeks ago, hands her a 5/16" wrench.

"We're gonna be late again," says Evan.

"When did you care about getting to school on time?" asks his thirty-three-year-old mother.

"We're putting up pictures for Parents' Night," he replies. He watches his mother turn the bolt. "Righty-tighty, lefty-lucy."

"Thanks," replies Andrea. "Don't worry Evan, you'll have plenty of time." She looks at the carburetor, annoyed that it is not set. "Darn it!"

"Um, can dad come this time?" asks Evan.

They hear the engine of a 1983 Lincoln Continental start.

"You know the answer to that," says Andrea.

"Can't he just take time off or something?"

"We've been through this a hundred times. He works hard at this job to put food on the table and get you nice clothes and us this nice house. You won't believe all the things he goes through to do so."

"But Lenny said his dad was coming…and Tommy and Kayleigh's dad."

"Here, Ev," she says, handing him the wrench. "Finish this up for me."

Andrea removes the overalls to reveal a blouse and blue jeans.

"All the dads are gonna be there," says Evan, screwing together the carburetor.

"I get the point. But I'm not so bad, am I?"

"No."

"Good. Because I've been waiting to see your art projects all week and I'd feel terrible if all you thought about was your father not being there."

Evan hands the wrench back to Andrea. "Done. Try it."

Andrea sits in the driver's seat and starts the Celica. "You're amazing, kiddo."

_Just like your father. What the fuck do they talk about in those stupid meetings, anyway? _

Oooooooooooo

_Why the fuck did I even go to this stupid meeting anyway?_

Jason Treborn sits inside the huge meeting room located at American Pride's headquarters on the 96th floor of Building One of the World Trade Center in Manhattan. The Brooklyn Bridge is visible from this high up. Some loud-mouth executive clearly in love with his own voice drones on and on and on. Several other employees of American Pride stare blankly at him.

_I wonder what Andrea and Evan are doing?_

Oooooooooooo

**April 7, 1989**

"Thanks, George," says Jason, speaking on the phone. "We really appreciate you watching Evan. He won't be much trouble….Great, we'll see you soon."

"So we can drop him off there?" asks Andrea.

"Yeah. Finally we can see a grown-up movie. Like _Cyborg _or _Troop Beverly Hills_. God but I was getting tired of seeing those dumbed-down kiddie movies."

Evan finishes up a bowl of Post Lucky Charms cereal, feeding some of them to Crockett.

Minutes later, a black Lincoln Continental stops right next to the home of George Miller, with "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley playing on the radio. Mr. Miller comes out of the house and approaches the car, opening the passenger door.

"Hey Jason, Andrea," he says. "Hey little man," Miller says to Evan.

"Here, George," says Jason, handing Miller a piece of paper even as Evan gets out. "My pager number. If there's any emergencies."

"Whaddaya kidding?" asks George, laughing. "We're going to have a great time today, right Evan?"

"Uh, what will you be doing?" asks Andrea.

"Making movies. Amateur movies."

"You know, George," says Jason, "one of my hobbies is home movies and photography. Gotta take a break from investment research, you know. Just the other day…"

"Jason, I think we should go," interrupts Andrea.

"Okay, dear. George, we should trade movies or something sometime." Jason puts the Continental into gear, and drives off.


	10. You've Got Mail

**January 2, 1991**

"Doesn't look like much, Mr. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer, looking around the mostly empty office suite in White Plains, New York. There are only a few desks, two Apple Macintosh SE's with FDHD floppy disk drives capable of handling 1.4 MB high density floppy disks, and a LaserWriter printer. Plastic bags containing office supplies lie on the ground.

"Well, it's mine," replies Jason Treborn, majority shareholder and board-chairman of the newly-founded Temporal Financial Services, Incorporated, an open-ended investment company. "I can at last be able to make decisions without having to consult some silver-spooned jackass in some high-rise in Manhattan."

"And me, sir."

"You're a good man, Schnaufer, and an excellent financial analyst. But let's face it, neither of us were heading anywhere in American Pride. I mean, the best I could do is some executive position in headquarters. I mean, a vice president's position or CEO is reserved for some dumbass nephew of some board director who only attends meetings once a year and devotes his life to a golf game or fucking his mistress. And you, the best you could be there was a branch manager. No opportunity for either of us there. Here though, we are at the top."

Jason goes to the desk in his new office, opening a briefcase containing floppy disks, notes, and dated photographs. _The photographs are the most important. _

"Sir, I suggest we start hiring some employees," says Schnaufer.

"Good idea," replies Jason. "Take care of that while I read the Wall Street Journal."

_And my notes from the future. _

Ooooooooooooo

**July 3, 1991**

The diesel-powered boat runs across the surface of the water of New York Bay. The Statue of Liberty and the gleaming skyscrapers of lower Manhattan are visible from the passengers of the boat. A breeze blows in from the Atlantic Ocean, kissing those out on the deck.

"So how is your business going?" asks Jason's brother, Scott Treborn.

"We now have a staff of twenty financial advisors," replies Jason, beaming about his proudest achievement as he gazes towards New York's financial district. "I'm also managing some mutual funds, like the Growth Fund and the Capital Bond Fund and the Retirement Fund. Really hot stuff. I should give you my card; the office is in White Plains, just north of the city."

"Do you have to think about your business at a time like this?" asks Andrea.

"I was just catching up with my brother here, that's all."

"Are we going to see Aunt Meaghan?" asks Chrissy, Scott's thirteen-year-old daughter, just starting her journey into becoming a woman.

"She has to work today," replies Jason. "We can see her when we go to your grandpa's house."

"Okay, Uncle Jason."

Just a few feet away, nine-year-old Evan Treborn, wearing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt and blue jeans, looks at Manhattan through a telescope. His uncle Scott and aunt Dana and their children – Chrissy, Nick, and Patti – are visiting from Tustin, California for the summer, arriving yesterday. They had all seen the movie _Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves _that day, and tonight they will have dinner with Chris and Lucinda Treborn, and after that they plan to see the movie _Terminator 2: Judgment Day_, which premieres this day. Today though, they tour New York City.

"How do you handle three?" asks Andrea.

"You just do, I guess," replies Dana Treborn, Scott's wife. "And you definitely need a support system."

Scott approaches his younger brother. "You know, how about we take a little side trip to Atlantic City tonight?"

"Maybe."

"I'll take a picture of all of us," says Scott.

"Evan!" Jason calls out. "We're gonna take a picture now."

"Coming," replies the nine-year-old, gathering with his parents and his cousins and his aunt.

Scott takes the picture. Another picture is then taken, with Chrissy holding the camera.

Jason and Andrea look out toward the Statue of Liberty.

"I wonder what's going to happen in a few years," says Andrea.

"Sometimes I don't have to wonder," replies her husband.

Oooooooooooo

**September 29, 1995**

"Tommy, I'm bored shitless over here," says thirteen-year-old Evan Treborn, smoking a cigarette.

"Hold your horses, man," replies Tommy Miller. "It's here somewhere. I saw it when I was a kid."

Evan, Tommy, Kayleigh, and Lenny are all in the basement of the Miller home this morning, smoking cigarettes. The basement is packed with a whole lot of junk. Rummaging through the junk, Tommy tosses Lenny a copy of Playboy Magazine. Tommy looks at the naked form of Miss August 1995, Rachel Jean Marteen.

"We should go soon," Kayleigh says to Tommy. "If Dad catches us smoking down here, we're dead."

"So let's go," says Evan, agreeing with Kayleigh and not wanting _his _dad to find out what he is doing down here. "This place creeps me out."

As Evan, Lenny, and Kayleigh stand up, Tommy picks up an old Thermos bottle, shaking it. Something inside is clearly heard.

"I knew it had something to do with the army," says Tommy. He opens the Thermos and takes out a tiny stick of dynamite, grinning with mischief. "Let's blow the shit out of something!"

ooooooooooooooo

The forest is huge, with tall trees sprouting from the ground. Centuries ago, the forest was much bigger, once extending all the way to what would be called the Harlem River. This remnant is slowly losing its battle to developers.

"My dad wants to send me to some private high school next year," says Evan, walking through the forest with his friends. "An _all-boys' _high school. They say the school was around since before the Revolution."

"He's just trying to do what's best for you," says Kayleigh.

"I want to be with you."

"Hey guys!" shouts Lenny, wheezing. "Slow up, would you?"

"Evan, did I tell you?" asks Kayleigh. "My mother said I might be able to visit her this summer in Orlando with her new family."

"What did I say about mentioning that bitch?" asks Tommy, with anger in his voice.

"Where the hell are you taking us anyway?" asks Kayleigh, discomfort in her voice. "Just blow something up already."

"Just blow something up? Are you nuts? There's an art to mass destruction. Would you just paint the Mona Lisa? No. Besides, we're here already."

The four of them approach a street. It is the edge of the encroaching residential development of colonial-style houses. The houses have mailboxes which are replicas fo the homes that they serve.

"Here you go, buddy," says Tommy, handing the little stick of dynamite to Lenny.

"What?" replies Lenny. "No frigging way, man. I'm not touching that thing."

"The hell you aren't. Anyone of us does it, you'll puss out and narc for sure."

"Ain't gonna work this time, buddy. Look how small that fuse is! I'll get killed."

"Not necessarily," says Evan. He takes his lit cigarette, removes the fuse, and jams it into the unlit end. "That should buy you ten minutes at least."

"Gee, thanks friend," replies Lenny.

Ooooooooooooo

"This is what we need," says Bob Schnaufer, sitting inside Jason's office at Temporal Financial Services. "These up-and-coming companies have solid growth potential."

Jason looks up at his longtime assistant. "And you think there's something to this Internet?"

"Yes, sir. The Internet's gonna be the next biggest thing. Already every university has a web site. Government agencies have websites. All those big companies have web sites. _We _don't have a web site."

"It's just a bunch of people looking at a fucking screen."

"It's gonna revolutionize society. People will make purchases online. Look at stock quotes online. Book air fare, hotel rooms online."

"Yeah, and I suppose that bars and coffeeshops will have Internet terminals for their customers."

Jason's cell phone, a Motorola, rings. He flips it open.

"Yes?" asks Jason.

"It's me, Jason," says Andrea. "Something's up."

"What is it?"

"Evan's friend Lenny got freaked out when they and Tommy and Kayleigh were building a fort in the woods. Lenny was rushed to the hospital. I'm here at the hospital with the Kagans."

"I see." Jason had met Lenny Kagan a few times over the years. "Why weren't they at school?"

"It was a student-free day; the teachers had a meeting."

"I'll talk to you as soon as I get home."

"Can you be home by 5:00?"

"Uh, sure," Jason says grudgingly. "See you."

He turns his attention to Schnaufer.

"A lot of potential with the Internet."

"Bob, ever heard of tulips?"

"Uh yeah, Jason."

"I did a paper on the Dutch tulip crash, back when I was in college. Tulips took a long time to grow, so people sold tulip bulbs. Soon, people were bidding up the prices of tulips, in order to sell it to someone else and make a profit. They were speculating. Then, one day, the price plummeted and fortunes were wiped out. People even lost their homes. I'm not going to risk my company on some damn tulip craze."

Ooooooooooooo

Jason drives the 1995 Lincoln Continental towards the multiplex theater, the song "Black Hole Sun" by Soundgarden playing on the stereo system. The sunset casts the sky in orange. Stopping the car and putting the brake in park, he drops off Evan, Tommy, and Kayleigh.

"Have a great time," says Jason. "Don't worry about Lenny; I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Uh, thanks, Mr. Treborn," says Kayleigh.

Jason drives the black Lincoln Continental away.

"Wipe that sad-assed look off your face before you get us all busted," says Tommy. "You see the way Evan's dad was looking at you?"

"I'm sorry," says Kayleigh.

"I just hope my mom and dad don't find out about the mailbox," says Evan.

Tommy grabs Evan's jacket and shoves him against a wall, near a plaque advertising the movie _Se7en_.

"Don't ever bring that shit up again," he says. "Not ever. Not to me, not to Kayleigh, or even Lenny. The stupid fuck if he ever learns to talk again. Understand?"

Evan meekly nods.

"Ever," repeats Tommy, shoving Evan. "She don't want to talk about it, anyway. Do you Kayleigh?"

ooooooooooooo

The Sony color television in the living room is on as Andrea washes the dishes. A local newscast is on the TV.

"...was the grizzly aftermath of what police officials of upstate New York are calling a horrible act of vandalism gone awry," says the news anchor. "The powerful explosion is believed to have been caused by a small quantity of dynamite." Jason enters the house, having taken out the trash. "Police thus far have no leads as to the suspects..."

Andrea shuts off the TV with the remote control, trembling.

"What's wrong?" asks her husband, catching her feelings.

Ooooooooooooo

Evan and Kayleigh step out of the multiplex theater. It is already nighttime; the parking lot is lit with the lampposts.

A pair of headlights approaches the two. They come from the black Lincoln Continental that belongs to Evan's dad.

The two of them get into the backseat. Evan's parents are sitting at the front. Jason releases the brake and drives away from the parking lot.

"How was the movie?" asks Jason.

"Okay," replies Kayleigh.

"Any exploding mailboxes?" asks Andrea.

Evan and Kayleigh flinch, a vice gripping both of their hearts.

"What do you mean?" asks Kayleigh, trembling.

Jason pulls the car over. Kayleigh sees that she is at her house. She bolts from the Continental.

"Good night," says Andrea.

Jason wordlessly drives to his home.

Oooooooooooo

"What do we do?" asks Andrea, lying down in the bed.

"We don't know exactly what happened," says Jason. "Maybe they were just witnesses or something."

"Stop the bullshit. We know they were just more than witnesses."

Jason nods.

"Listen, I think we should move far away from here before the police connect Evan to the crime. We can go to my parents in Pennsylvania, or your brother in California."

Jason gets up. "There is something _I _can do. But I'll need to find out _exactly _what happened, and I know whom to go to."

Jason walks down the hall to his son's bedroom.

"Dad," says Evan.

"Evan, you will tell me exactly what happened," says Jason.

"Nothing happened."

"Bullshit!" yells his father. "If you don't tell me _exactly_ what I want to know, I'm turning you over to the police!"

ooooooooooooo

**October 2, 1995**

Jason gets out of the Lincoln Continental and heads straight for his office.

"Good morning, Mr. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer as he sees his boss enter the main office.

"Morning, Schnaufer," replies Jason. "I'm a little busy."

"You have a morning meeting, sir."

"Tell them I will be delayed by a few minutes."

Jason enters his private office, turning on the Apple Macintosh LC 580 on his desk, which is equipped with a 500 MB hard disk drive, a 1.44 MB floppy disk drive, and a CD-ROM drive. The 14" color screen reveals the happy Mac icon, followed by the "Welcome to Macintosh" message. The Macintosh desktop appears before him. He opens the folder containing scanned images of himself, taken in this office. Each image is dated.

He opens the image labeled "Sep-1-1995, staring intently.

Oooooooooooooo

**September 1, 1995**

Jason finds himself holding a Polaroid camera. The picture leaves the picture slot.

He notices that the Macintosh LC 580 is still on. The date on the corner reads 9/1/1995.

_I'm back. I haven't turned thirty-six yet._

He immediately opens the TeachText program. He types everything he knows about what will happen on September 29th.

After saving the message in a folder labeled Future messages, he takes the photograph and scans it on the nearby scanner. He makes sure to save the file with the name "Sep-1-1995".

A woman with tightly-curled black hair enters the room; he recognizes her as the secretary. "I've a message for you, Mr. Treborn," she says.

"Thanks," replies Jason.

Oooooooooo

**September 29, 1995**

"Not necessarily," says Evan. He takes his lit cigarette, removes the fuse, and jams it into the unlit end. "That should buy you ten minutes at least."

"Gee, thanks friend," replies Lenny.

A hand grabs the little stick of dynamite. The still-lit cigarette falls off onto the pavement.

"What the hell is this?" demands an adult voice.

"Mr. Treborn?" says Kayleigh, surprised. The others look at him, sharing Kayleigh's expression.

Jason grabs Evan's left ear, pulling him. "We're going home now, Evan," he says. "The rest of you, you'll be hearing from your parents soon enough."

Ooooooooooo

**October 2, 1995**

Jason Treborn finds himself back in his office. The date on the computer screen reads 10/2/1995.

_Did it work?_

Then the memories flash right into his head; blood trickles from his nose.

Ooooooooo

That afternoon, Jason returns home. He had passed by the house where the bomb would have gone off. The mailbox is still intact. Presumably, Mrs. Halpern and her baby are still alive.

He opens the door to Evan's room. His son looks meekly at him.

"Why?" asks Jason.

"We've been through this before, Dad."

"Do you know how close you came to killing someone? You should be lucky you'll never know!"

"Dad, I'm sorry, okay."

"I want an explanation. It's for your own good, because I want to know why you do this shit. If we don't get into the reasons behind this, next time you might kill yourself or someone else."

"You were gonna send me to that school, away from my friends," says Evan. "I want to go to high school with Lenny and Tommy and Kayleigh."

"I only want what's the best for you, Evan. They're a great school. And after what happened last Friday, your friends obviously demonstrated their bad influence."

"Please, Dad. I want to see them again someday."

Jason looks at his son, staying silent for a minute. "You won't be seeing _anyone_ outside of school until next year," he says. "And I doubt their parents will let you see them even if I let you leave the house. Still, after your punishment is over, I am open to supervised visits. I can't promise anything except I'll talk to them."

"Okay, Dad," says Evan.

Jason walks to the kitchen. His wife Andrea is there, with USDA choice beef on the counter.

"Whom are you calling, dear?" she asks as Jason picks up the phone.

"George Miller," replies Jason.

"Is it about what happened last Friday?"

"Sort of. I'm going to talk about supervised visits next year. I see no problem with Evan being with his friends after his punishment's over. He's a good kid; we just have to correct him when he does shit like this."

"The number you have dialed has been disconnected or no longer in service," says a voice.

"What the?" asks Jason, dialing Miller's number again.

He gets the same response.

"Maybe he forgot to pay his phone bill," says Jason. He dials the number for the Kagans.

"Hello?" asks a female voice.

"This is Jason Treborn," says Jason.

"Hi, Mr. Treborn," says Mrs. Kagan. "Are you talking about what Lenny did? You want to talk to him? He's not allowed to talk on the phone, but if you want me to get him."

"No, Mrs. Kagan. I was wondering if someday, you would allow supervised visits between Evan and Lenny."

"Supervised visits?"

"They're good kids who got into a shitload of trouble. They won't be seeing each other for a while; I've no problem with them seeing each other next year."

"I'll talk about this with my husband. We'll discuss this next January."

"Thanks."

Ooooooooooo

**October 4, 1995**

Jason Treborn drives his Lincoln Continental this Wednesday morning. He takes a little detour before heading to Temporal Financial Services. "I Have Nothing" by Whitney Houston plays on the stereo.

He drives up towards the Miller home; he had tried to contact George Miller, but the phone is disconnected.

He notices a U-Haul truck parked, with movers moving the stuff out. He parks the car and steps out.

"Excuse me," he says. "Is George Miller here?"

"Who?" asks the mover, clad in a blue outfit. "Oh, the owner. He's not here. He already moved and he told us to pick up the rest of his stuff. He gave us a copy of his house keys."

"Oh," he says. Jason gets into his car, driving to his job in White Plains.

Oooooooooooooo

That evening, Evan looks through the window, feeling worse than when his dad caught him with that tiny stick of dynamite.

Kayleigh is gone.

Ooooooooooooo

**October 20, 1995**

"I'm telling you, Mr. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer. "The Internet is the future."

"I've read your report and told you why I disagree," says Jason.

"Sir, we have to take this opportunity. It's once in a lifetime."

"You want to risk money in a fool's venture, find your own company!"


	11. Bull Market

**September 17, 1999**

Opening his eyelids, seventeen-year-old Evan Treborn awakes in his bedroom. After using the bathroom as part of his typical morning routine, he walks to the kitchen. Both of his parents are having breakfast.

"Evan," says Andrea, "we're not going to be here for dinner tonight."

"Where are you guys going?" asks Evan, pouring himself a bowl of Kellogg's Corn Pops.

"We're going to a dinner banquet in Manhattan," says Jason. "We'll stay overnight at a hotel and we'll be back Saturday morning."

"You can have some friends over," says Andrea. "No girls though."

"Sure, Mom."

"You can call us on our cell phones if there's any emergency," says Jason.

Evan feels something rub up against his leg.

"Want some breakfast, Crockett?" Evan asks the ten-year-old cocker spaniel.

Oooooooooooooo

It is evening, and thousands of lights light up Manhattan. Most people are on their way home for work, while others work full-time jobs.

In southern Manhattan is the World Trade Center, a complex of seven buildings located in Manhattan's financial district, containing 13.4 millions square feet of office space.

Jason and Andrea Treborn, both clad in fine clothes, arrive in the lobby of One World Trade Center, a tower rising one hundred ten stories above the ground. They walk to one of the express elevators, where others in business suits, many of them here for the banquet, are already waiting. The doors open, and the elevator whisks them to the sky lobby at the seventy-eighth floor sky lobby. From there they take a local elevator to the one hundred seventh floor.

Jason and Andrea walk through a door.

"Welcome to Windows on the World," says a host.

"We're here for the dinner banquet," says Jason, extending his engraved invitation.

"Someone will escort you, sir," replies the host.

Less than a minute later, Jason and Andrea are led into one of the banquet rooms at Windows on the World. They are seated at a cloth-covered table. A street map of Manhattan is printed on the carpet. Two candles adorn the table. The window reveals New York City at night. More and more people enter the banquet room.

Dinner is roasted tenderloin covered with a sherry sauce and garlic, sautéed scallops, white cheddar mashed potatoes, and vegetables. Jason and Andrea eat dinner, talking about their history, and their dreams, even while guests of honor make speeches

"I think I'm gonna go over to the bar and have some drinks," says Jason after finishing his main course. "Gotta mingle with my peers, you know."

"Okay, dear," replies Andrea. "Maybe I'll join you later."

The forty-year-old corporate chairman walks to the Greatest Bar on Earth, which adjoins Windows on the World. Many people from the banquet are here, sipping drinks.

"Get me a screwdriver," says Jason, walking to the bar.

"Okay, sir," replies the bartender, a man dressed in black pants, white shirt, black vest, and black bowtie. He grabs Absolut vodka from the counter in the back and mixes it with some orange juice.

Jason hands the bartender a credit card. He walks around with his drink, to begin networking with others in his field.

"Treborn," someone says. "It has been such a long time."

Jason looks around, seeing a bespectacled man in a business suit, holding a caramel-colored drink.

The man is Bob Schnaufer, now thirty-one years old.

"Good evening, Schnaufer," says Jason. "I suppose life has been treating you well."

"It has," replies Schnaufer. "You definitely did me a favor, cutting me loose like that. I invested my personal funds on those Internet stocks. My net worth skyrocketed. I'm a senior executive for a major investment firm, located just a few floors below us. Sure living in Manhattan is crowded, but having a penthouse overlooking Central Park can make the crowds go away, not to mention a lovely lady."

A beautiful, bubbly blonde takes Schnaufer's arm.

"Oh Bobby boy," says the blonde, wearing a red dress. "Shall we go now?"

"You should have invested in Internet stocks back when I told you," says Bob Schnaufer, walking away. "Who knows how far you could have gotten."

Rage slowly creeps in Jason's mind.

Oooooooooooo

"You haven't been saying much," says Andrea, standing inside the express elevator as it heads to the ground-floor level of One World Trade Center.

"I just ran into Bob Schnaufer today," replies her husband.

"He used to work for you, right?"

"Yes. We had disagreements as to invest into Internet companies. If I had invested in those companies back then…"

"We're already millionaires now, Jason. Don't worry about it. It's not like we're gonna end up in the poorhouse."

"The Internet was the biggest thing that happened in investment history, and _I scoffed at it_! I missed the early years and now this boom is upon us. If I could only go back and put money into the Internet before it became hot shit."

The elevator doors open. "You don't have to do that," says Andrea. "We have enough."

Ooooooooooooo

**September 20, 1999**

Jason parks the 1995 Lincoln Continental and walks to his private office at Temporal Financial Services. Immediately turning on the Apple Macintosh LC 580, he ponders on exactly what to write as the Macintosh's operating system boots up.

He opens the folder containing scanned 1995 photos. He searches his memory to recall when Schnaufer had advised him to go into Internet stocks.

He sees the photograph dated Oct-2-1995. He remembers that day; it was when he had gone back in time to stop Evan and his friends from blowing up a mailbox, killing a young mother and her baby girl. After his return, he had taken a photograph.

He stares into the photograph.

And falls into the past.

Ooooooooooooo

**October 2, 1995**

Jason finds himself holding the Polaroid camera, and the photograph is ejected from the slot. Checking the screen of the Macintosh, the date reads 10/2/1995.

_I wonder if I should be this. I am still a millionaire._

He opens the TeachText program to type a message for his thirty-six-year-old self to read.

September 20, 1999

October 2, 1995

In the next four years, the prices of Internet company stocks such as Amazon, Google, Yahoo!, Lycos, E-Bay, Expedia, and Travelocity will skyrocket.

Please make sure to make appropriate investments.

And make sure to keep Schanufer around; he has very good insight.

From the future,

Jason Treborn

Jason saves the document for his past self to read. He then scans the photograph that had just been taken and saves the file into the 1995 Photos folder.

And he waits, just going about the rest of the day, having meetings and talking to clients. It is rather annoying to have to relive a typical day. Not for the first time, he wonders if he would have to relive every second up to the time he flashed back from.

He walks into Bob Schnaufer's office.

"Is there anything?" asks Schnaufer.

"This Internet thing, Schnaufer," says Jason. "I've been looking it over and there might be something to it."

"It's the next revolution, sir. Missing out on this would be like an investor missing out on the Industrial Revolution."

Jason smiles. "I'll take a further look at those companies before making a decision. I'm sure that waiting a day or two won't hurt."

He closes the door behind him. He _knows _for a fact Schnaufer is right; he will not admit it this early.

He has lunch at the café, and continues the rest of his work day.

Then, around 4 PM, time seems to fast forward.

Ooooooooooo

**September 20, 1999**

The first thing Jason Treborn notices after the images flash by is a pounding headache.

He next notices something trickling from his nose.

Grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket, he pinches his nose. With his eyes he can see a screen displaying Netscape Navigator.

Leaning back, he can see that the screen is not that of a Macintosh LC 580.

He looks at the desk, and it is different from the one he had back in 1995. It is made of wood instead of steel, for one. The telephone is a different model than what he is used to.

The chair also feels different. Bending his neck, he can see the seat is well cushioned, with black leather covering the chair.

Looking past his desk, he has a full view of his office. The office is much larger than one he had before; it appears bigger than the office suite Temporal Financial Services had in 1995. The floor is covered in black marble tiles. Plaques are pinned to the wall.

Looking behind him he can see two other skyscrapers as well as a huge grid of streets of buildings. He recognizes this as a recently constructed commercial development in White Plains; in fact, he remembers a few years ago discussing this with the developers. From the view he can tell he is very high up.

Jason gets up and walks across the marble-tiled floor. He sees a framed copy of BusinessWeek hanging on the wall.

The cover has his own picture on it, with the caption, "America's Finance Guru – Jason Treborn Explains How to Secure Yourself Financially".

_Hot shit._

Looking further, he sees photographs of him together with President Bill Clinton and Governor George Pataki.

He opens a single door to the right of the room. Inside is a marble sink with brass handles and a faucet. The floor has the same black marble tile; this room is a private bathroom.

He walks back to his desk and uses the computer – he sees that it is a Power Macintosh G4. He opens the Bookmarks menu to select the web site for Temporal Financial Services. The web site looks the same on first inspection. The front page advertises the company's services; it offers the same services as before.

He clicks on the link explaining the company's history.

Founded in 1991 in White Plains, New York, Temporal Financial Services has been offering a wide variety of products and services. It has grown from one office to a network of branch offices nationwide. The company went public in 1996, with an IPO of sixty dollars per share.

Today, Temporal Financial Services is America's leading financial services company, with a reputation for staying ahead, offering brokerage services, financial advice, and mutual funds. Its income, reported in 1998, was one hundred ten million dollars.

Temporal Financial Services – Three steps ahead of fate.

Jason then clicks on another link.

Born and raised in a small town in Connecticut, Jason Treborn started his career in financial services with an internship with American Pride Financial Services. He was hired as a financial advisor after his graduation with a Bachelor of Science in Finance.

In 1991, he went on his own, founding Temporal Financial Services, which has grown to a network of over two thousand financial advisors across the nation.

Today, Mr. Treborn serves as chairman of Temporal Financial Services and sits on the boards of several charitable organizations in New York. He has appeared as a guest host on CNN's _Moneyline_.

Jason continues browsing the company web site. The telephone on his desk here.

"This is Jason Treborn," he says.

"Mr. Treborn," says a female voice. "Your 10:15 appointment is here, sir."

"Thanks."

The wooden doors open, and a man in his fifties, dressed in business attire, enters the room.

"Ah, good morning," says Jason, extending his hand.

"Mr. Treborn," replies the guest. "Nice speech you gave at the banquet Friday. Nice office you have here."

"We can get you some snacks, sir."

"I am a busy man. How about we get down to business?"

oooooooooooo

After a morning of reading reports, Jason finally leaves his office. The décor of the Temproal Financial Services office suite is much richer than it was in 1995.

"Oh, Mr. Treborn," a voice calls.

Jason turns around, recognizing Bob Schnaufer.

"The staff and I made some reports on that business proposal with Sony," says Bob Schnaufer.

"How about we discuss this after lunch, Schnaufer?" asks Jason.

"Okay, sir."

Oooooooooooooo

After a day consisting mostly of reading reports and holding meetings, Jason leaves the office and walks to the elevator- noting that Temporal Financial Services is located on the 27th floor penthouse.

The elevator descends to the lobby of the building. Jason and the others in the elevator step out onto marble-tiled floor of the lobby. A water fountain serves as a centerpiece. A Wells Fargo bank is located next to the lobby, packed with customers.

"Have a good evening, Mr. Treborn," says Schnaufer.

Jason walks to the parking lot, seeing his 1995 Lincoln Continental. He notes that the space is reserved for the Chairman of TFS, Inc. Stepping into the car, he starts the engine and drives off. The song "You Were Meant For Me" by Jewel plays on the stereo.

Earlier he had checked the address on his New York driver's license, noting that he now lives in Rye, New York. He checked a road map to find out how to get to where his home is now in this revised history. As he drives, Jason notes that the route seems familiar.

He turns on to a residential street. On both sides are mansions with well-manicured front lawns. He checks the numbers painted onto the curb.

And then he steers the Continental onto a driveway. The driveway leads to a garage attached to this huge brick mansion. A balcony hangs directly above the front door. Jason feels familiar with this place.

Opening the thick wooden front doors, Jason emerges into the front room, the floor covered in white marble tiles. A stairway rises from the floor to a platform, where stairs rise from the left and right to an interior balcony. The railing is varnished wood, and Jason can see that the support pillars are finely carved with intricate patterns.

Walking through a door to the right of the front hall, he steps onto the soft carpet of the living room. Inside the room are couches, a Pioneer plasma color television with an attached satellite box, and an Aiwa stereo system that is currently playing the song "Torn" by Natalie Imbruglia.

Two teenage boys sit at the coffee table reading textbooks.

"Hi, Dad," says Evan Treborn.

"Hello," replies Jason. "Oh, hi, Lenny."

"Hello, Mr. Treborn," says seventeen-year-old Lenny Kagan. Evan and I are studying."

"Good. And how are your parents?"

"Fine, sir."

"I had dinner with the Kagans last Friday," says Evan. "You know, when you and Mom went to that banquet in Manhattan."

"Of course," replies Jason. He goes to the main hall and enters the kitchen. The kitchen's countertops are covered with blue tiles. The sink's faucet and handles are made of brass. The Kenmore refrigerator includes an ice and water dispenser. The interior of the refrigerator has two liters of Coke, some Budweiser beer, a bottle of wine, and two water pitchers. Jason then leaves the kitchen and walks up the stairs, walking along the balcony and going through a door to the second floor hallway. Walking into one of the rooms of the mansion, he sees a collection of Nautilus workout equipment. He takes a closer inspection.

"Gonna work out in those clothes?"

Jason turns and sees his wife Andrea. "Hi there," he says. "How was your day?"

"I was over at the kitchen with Irene," says Andrea, referring to a soup kitchen for veterans. "The stories people will tell."

Jason takes his wife into his arms.

Oooooooooooooo

**November 25, 1999**

Immersed in hot sunflower oil, the turkey cooks inside the deep-fryer at a temperature of three hundred seventy degrees Fahrenheit; steaming from the inside out. A propane gas tank heats the pot.

"Only a few more minutes," says Andrea, looking at a Casio digital stopwatch.

"Interesting method of cooking a turkey," says her husband.

Jason and Andrea are outside in the backyard patio, surrounded by the autumnscape. A greenhouse is attached to the mansion; flowering plants are visible from here. In the backyard is a huge oak tree. A fire extinguisher is close at hand. Both of them wear aprons and googles and thick gloves.

"My mom used deep-fried turkeys. Keeps the moisture in. I learned how tio do this over twenty years ago."

"My mom was from Alabama; deep-fried food is a tradition in her family."

It takes about an hour to finish deep-frying the turkey.

"I'll prepare the French fries," says Jason even as his wife places the deep-fried turkey into the kitchen. "It should be easier to handle than the turkey."

Jason smiles at a JVC digital video camera mounted on a tripod.

Ooooooooooooo

The doorbell rings.

Jason, clad in a sweater and khaki pants, walks to the front hall opening the door.

"Jason," says to his brother Scott.

"Welcome to my home," he says to Scott and the others.

"I am impressed by this place," says Dana, who is Scott's wife.

Four other people enter the mansion.

"Hi, Uncle Jason," says a twenty-two-year-old blond-haired woman.

"Hello, Chrissy," says Jason.

A man in his early twenties with slick black hair, wearing a sweatshirt, enters and places his arm around Chrissy's waist.

"Hello there," says Jason. "What was your name?"

"Roland. Roland Caculitan."

"Well, come on in." Jason remembers attending Roland and Chrissy's wedding

in California a few months ago. "How are you two doing?"

"We're doing well," says Chrissy, patting her bulging belly. "So when will dinner be ready? I'm eating for two, you know."

The doorbell rings again.

"I'll get that," says Evan. He looks through the peephole and opens the door.

"Grandpa," he says.

"Evan," replies seventy-two-year-old Chris Treborn, his hair now mostly gray.

"Hi, Dad," says Jason, giving his father a hug.

"Good to see you, Jason," says Chris. He goes on to greet his son, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren. They all update each other on their lives.

"So what do you do now, Grandpa?" asks Scott's nineteen-year-old son, Nick.

"I jog in the mornings, watch TV, sometimes I go to the senior citizens' center. I still has some life ahead of me."

"I'm sure you have twenty or thirty years left, Dad," says Jason.

"And you know this how?"

"Just guessing."

"Hi there," says a female voice.

Andrea looks and sees her sister-in-law, Meaghan Treborn. "Hello there," she says.

"We're all here, and it's already six," says Jason. "Let's eat!"

Inside the main dining room, a deep-fried turkey sits on top of a bed of French fries which sits on a plate which sits on a cloth-covered table. Accompanying the turkey are some bottles of red wine, a casserole dish full of stuffing, and sourdough bread rolls in a basket. Jason takes a a huge Cutco carving knife and carves the turkey. The others in the room look with hunger.

They all take slices of moist turkey, hcewing it in their mouths.

"This is some great shit," says Scott after swallowing a piece of turkey. "It is a lot better than the turkey they served us in 'Nam back in Thanksgiving of 1970. That shit was as dry as a bone."

"You should thank Andrea," says Jason. "She cooked it."

"And my mother taught me," says Andrea.

"you know," Chris says to Roland, who is new to the family, "My ancestor, Ezekiel Treborn, was at the first Thanksgiving; he came aboard the _Mayflower._

"That's interesting," replies Roland.

In about an hour the turkey is finished. The party moves from the formal dining room to a den. The den is covered with a hardwood floor. A huge Pioneer plasma television is the centerpiece, with a satellite box and a Toshiba VHS video cassette recorder. Evan turns the television on, and a football game is displayed on the plasma screen.

Sometime later, a commercial appears, starring Sam Waterston from _Law and Order_.

"When it comes to your money, your future," Waterston says in the commercial. "nobody is more trustworthy than Temporal Financial Services. For eight years they have helped Americans plan for the future and build shelters to prepare for what life throws at them."

"Temporal Financial Services," says another voice as the logo for the company appears. "Three steps ahead of fate."

The football game continues. About two hours later, Jason leaves. He walks through a door to the greenhouse. He sees his father standing near one of the tropical orchids.

"Nice place you got here," says Chris.

"We had it constructed last year," says Jason. "Gardening is one of Andrea's hobbies."

"You've made yourself quite a fortune, Jason."

"I worked hard for it, Dad."

"I remember the last Thanksgiving I had with your grandfather. It was back in 1946."

"How is he doing?"

"Your grandpa's still alive and in the institution."

"He has to be over a hundred."

"Yes, he is. I first heard about your grandpa being committed back in 1948. Your grandma wrote me a letter. I took leave from the Marine Corps in 1949 and came to visit him. My conversations were interesting."

"you know how he has that fantasy memory, Dad," says Jason.

"That's what I thought first," replies Chris. "When I first spoke with him, he last remembered that it was October of 1962."

"But it was 1949 when you spoke with him."

"Yes. Dad told me that he had been elected President of the United States in 1960. He said that in October of 1962, the Soviets had missiles in Cuba. They refused to back down, so your grandpa acted. There was a nuclear world war over the next several days."

Jason recalls that part of history from his history classes. "That did not happen yet when he told you."

"I know. It wasn't until the Cuban Missile Crisis happened that I knew he was right. Meanwhile, I started having these flashbacks when I looked at pictures."

"When did these start?" asks Jason.

"I remember it was when I was serving in Korea. I looked at old pictures and then I relived that moment. I didn't think nothing of it at first. Later, I think it was '54, I was looking at some old pictures of me, and then I found myself back there for a while."

"So you could relive your wedding with Mom, right?"

"Yes. I was beginning to wonder what this was though. By '54 I was out of the Marines, your mom and I raising your older brother. I looked at one picture, taken during the Chosin Reservoir campaign."

"And you went back."

"Yes. I was hoping to flash forward before the enemy would attack, but it was not to be. I was fighting in the war again. I remembered a tank coming in by surprise. I ran and saw the Russian-made tank used by the Chinese. I drew their attention and threw a grenade into the hatch. After that I flashed forward."

"Wow," says Jason.

"It didn't happen that way _originally. _Then tank was supposed to ambush us, killing my friend Ash. A few months after that, Ash contacted me. He _survived_."

"So you changed history."

"Yes. I did more research into my family history. I learned that the men in our family line had a tendency to either drop dead suddenly, or end up institutionalized, like your grandfather. I even found out that Ezekiel suffered from mental illness, unable to remember new things. From what I had learned, I found out that this ability I had was passed on from father to son, and that using this ability could lead to memory loss. That is why I rarely used it. I never stare at a photograph for too long."

"Did you use this to try to save Mom?" asks Jason.

"Yes," replies Chris. "It was a risk worth taking, and I was not trying to change something that happened long ago. I went back and left a note to myself. Obviously it didn't work. Not much you can do to prevent someone dying from a stroke except try to get them to the hospital early."

"I guess there are no guarantees. But don't you wish you could go back to see Mom again?"

"No. I knew what happened with so many men in our family, the toll their flashbacks took on them. And I want to warn you about this. I know you have these, and I know you used them to make your fortune."

Jason remains silent for a minute, amazed that his father figured this out. "I'm just trying to provide a better life for my wife and my son," says Jason.

"It's best to stop now while you're ahead, Jason," replies Chris. "Andrea and Evan might lose you if you keep trying to rewrite history for your financial gain."

"Just what is the big deal?"

"What right do we have to change the past for our own whims? What right did I have to kill those Chinese soldiers when I went back that time?"

"They were the enemy."

"They were the enemy of my younger self serving in the war, not a visitor from the future. Who is to say that it is better that they died instead of my friend Ash? If we alter history to prevent our problems, especially distant history, we can not grow as people. There are parts of my history which I did not like living through, and yet I know it would be foolish to change things, for that could destroy the person that I am. And I certainly would not change the past to become ungodly wealthy."

"I'm not saying that I'm gonna go back to change what happened years ago. Not anymore."

"This power is dangerous,; it could cost you your health. You've made your fortune, Jason. Just quit while you're ahead."

"You're just jealous, Dad," snaps Jason. "You're just jealous because you had this ability, an ability few other people will ever had, and did _nothing _with it. All you had was some little grocery store that went out of business a few years ago. I am the chairman of one of the most successful finance companies in the world. Look around. You squandered your talents and your life. I am moving ahead. I am going places. And you are going nowhere."

"I'm sorry, Jason."

Chris walks away, towards the mansion's living room.

_I told him everything. It is his choice now. _


	12. Bear Market

**January 1, 2000**

"Happy New Year!"

Champagne glasses are raised as the year 2000 is rung inside Romance at the Top of the World, near the top of the Stratosphere Tower in Las Vegas, Nevada, which overlooks the Strip and the rest of the metropolitan area.

Jason Treborn, decked out in an expensive-looking tuxedo, wraps his arms around his wife's waist and kisses her.

"Happy New Year," he says to Andrea.

He looks around, greeting happy new year to the other guests.

"Happy New Year, Jason" says Scott Treborn, touching his champagne glass to Jason's champagne glass.

"Happy New Year, Scott," replies Jason.

"Thanks, brother. It was nice of you to book me and Dana a suite here and an invitation to the New Years' Eve party here."

"Too bad this place is at the north end of the Strip," says Dana. She looks through the glass towards the Strip, seeing landmarks like the Circus Circus, the Stardust, the Mirage, the New York New York, the Luxor, and the Mandalay Bay. "It takes so long to get to all of the casinos."

"Happy New Year," Andrea says to Scott and Dana.

A few minutes later, Jason and Scott sit at the bar, ordering another round of drinks.

"Life's looking up for me," says Scott. "Every morning I look forward to waking up next to Dana, you know. Not as much as you, of course, with being chairman of some multi-billion dollar corporation."

"Hard work, Scott," replies Jason. "There's some pleasure in building something up. Of course, you always have to watch out for people who want to tear it down. They're out there, you know. Once you make it to the top people always want to tear you down."

"How's Andrea?" asks Scott, changing the subject.

"She's great," says Jason. "We still love each other so much. It's hard for her, sometimes, especially if I have to fly to meet with some corporate bigwigs, but all in all, our marriage is very rewarding."

"That's good. Chrissy seems to be doing fine. Her anniversary with Roland is coming up in a few months. And the baby's due in April."

"Cool, you're gonna be a grandpa soon."

"I met Roland's family. They have a tradition of sticking together, like us Treborns. No wonder he ended up with my Chrissy."

"They are having their first child at such a young age."

"You were twenty-two when you had Evan."

"I know," says Jason, sipping his blue-colored drink. "You know, it is his senior year. He graduates this June."

Ooooooooooo

**March 31, 2000**

Jason Treborn enters the conference room just across the hall from his private office. The table is long, made of mahogany wood. A side table holds a coffeepot, and a water cooler sits in a corner. This room is used for board meetings and meetings with the corporate staff, like right this Friday afternoon. The Temporal Financial Services chairman sits on a leather chair at the end of the table.

An aide, clad in a black skirt-suit, hands out papers to the executives.

"We will discuss the current trend in the NASDAQ," says Jason. "Mr. Jones, if you will."

"The NASDAQ closed at 4572.83 today," says Mr. Jones, a securities market analyst. "That is 159.99 down from the opening price on March 1, a reduction in value of three percent."

"Three percent loss in _one month_?" asks one of the executives, a balding man in a gray suit.

"A large portion of the stocks on the NASDAQ index have had zero income so far," says Jones. "I would conclude that a lot of the price increases in the past year or so was due to investors speculating that the price will continue to rise. The prices of those stocks are now going down."

"And what of the Dow?" asks CEO Bob Schnaufer.

"Over the same time period?" asks Jones, flipping through the reports in front of him. "It is up 793.21, closing at 10921.92, an increase of over seven percent."

"We do have a lot invested into NASDAQ stocks," says Jason.

Ooooooooooooo

**June 16, 2000**

The sun shines on the athletic field. Three hundred boys, seventeen to eighteen years of age, clad in red gowns and red caps, all sit. Their families watch from the sidelines. In the distance are the brick buildings for this elite private all-boys high school.

"Evan Treborn," announces a voice.

Eighteen-year-old Evan Treborn rises up, walks to the stage, and shakes the hand of the principal and one of the school's trustees. Smiling, he walks back to his seat. He had done it. He has finished high school. He is now a graduate, ready to spread his wings.

Then the caps go up.

He disperses along with everyone else. It had been a long, exciting day for him. In the morning he and the rest of the class of 2000 were recognized in the school's auditorium.

Among the vast crowd, he finally sees his parents.

"Congratulations," says Jason, embracing his son.

"Thanks," says Evan.

"So proud of you," replies Andrea.

"Time to take more pictures," says Jason, taking out a Nikon digital camera.

Oooooooooooo

"Congratulations," says Evan, now sitting at a cloth-covered table in a dimly-lit restaurant.

"You too, friend," says seventeen-year-old Lenny Kagan, reaching for a tortilla chip to dip into a spinach-artichoke dip.

Lenny had his graduation ceremony the same time Evan did. The Treborns and the Kagans decided to celebrate their respective graduations together, since the two of them could not attend each other's commencement ceremonies.

"So, Lenny," says Andrea, "you excited about the future?"

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to college," replies Lenny. "I know it'll be tough."

"I am sure Lenny will do fine," says Mr. Kagan. "You know he graduated with honors."

"Evan graduated with high honors," says Jason.

"Let's not compare, Dad," says Evan.

"You should be proud to graduate with high honors, Evan," says Mrs. Kagan.

"Thanks, Mrs. Kagan," says Evan. "I remember back when I first met Lenny; it was his fifth birthday. So much time has passed. So many people come and gone. Sometimes I wish I can go back."

"Yeah, we sure made memories."

The waitress comes by, serving the entrees to the party.

"Jason once showed me this trick, about twenty years ago, when we were in college," says Andrea. "He told me that he can recall a memory if it was photographed. Like, he can recall _everything _that happened."

"That's really neat stuff," says Lenny. "You mean Mr. Treborn could like, revisit your wedding day?"

"I could," says Jason, sticking a fork into a small boiled carrot. "Of course, I wouldn't be able to show you since I can't take you along."

"I suppose the mind plays tricks," says Evan. "I'm thinking of becoming a psychology major when I go to college."

Oooooooooooo

**December 15, 2000**

Jason Treborn looks at the Yahoo! Finance web site. He makes calculations using the Calculator desktop accessory.

"Look!" he says to Bob Schnaufer, sitting across from him. "NASDAQ's down thirty-six percent since the start of the year. Dow is down nine percent."

"Well, sir," says Schnaufer, "the stock market's been going up these past few years; there's bound to be a downturn."

"We invested a lot into those tech stocks. Yahoo went down _ninety-two percent_! You know how much our company invested in Yahoo? Down seventy-one percent. Apple is down eighty-six percent. Even Microsoft is down fifty-eight percent! Why did I ever go into these tech stocks?"

"Now, now, Mr. Treborn," says Schnaufer. "Sure, our company will be in the red this year, but we're still better off than we were in '95, when we started shifting our assets to tech stocks. We still have investments in other industries like energy and pharmaceuticals and property development."

"And my net worth, two-thirds of it was wiped out!"

"We'll just have to reassign assets to more profitable ventures, and hope for the best."

"I promoted these stocks on national television! Do you realize what this will do to my credibility?"

"You're still the chairman of the most successful financial services company in the world. Come on, even Bill Gates and Warren Buffet had bad years before. And you are still better off than when I first started working for you. You initially invested in Microsoft when it first went public, right?"

Jason nods. "Yeah, that was in '86. And I did invest thousands into Apple back in '84, when they came out with the Macintosh."

"You're not going to be a pauper. And our company will still go on."

"We lost so much money. It could have been avoided, Schnaufer! Those, those bastards probably did this. They did this to screw me over!"

"The past is the past."

Jason opens the folder containing pictures from February of 2000; he remembers that was when the stock market went bear. He opens the icon of a JPEG file dated February 1. He stares into the image of his face.

Ooooooooooooo

**February 1, 2000**

Jason notices that he is holding a Nikon digital camera. He looks and sees that Bob Schnaufer is not inside his office.

Opening the TeachText program on the Power Macintosh G4, he types a message for himself.

December 15, 2000

February 1, 2000

Make sure to dump Yahoo!, Apple, Microsoft, Hewlett Packard, and other stocks dealing with computer hardware and software.

The prices will start a plummet lasting to the end of the year. Shift these assets into bonds.

From the future,

Jason Treborn

He saves the text document. He then proceeds to upload the digital image that had just been taken by his younger self into the Macintosh's hard drive.

_I hope this works. _

It is about three hours before Jason flashes forward.

Oooooooooooo

**December 15, 2000**

The images flash by as Jason returns to the present. He looks at the date on the computer screen even as a salty taste reaches his lips.

He gets up and suddenly feels a pounding headache. He continues walking across the tiled floor towards the double doors, the headache getting stronger and stronger, like a howitzer barrage.

He opens the door.

And he falls.


	13. CAT Scan

**December 15, 2000**

Jason Treborn, lying down on a gurney, is unloaded from an ambulance by a team of paramedics and rushed inside a hospital. He is barely aware of what is happening as the gurney's wheels squeakily roll. One of the paramedics places a mask over his face, which is connected by a rubber tube to a squeezable plastic container.

He is rushed into an emergency operating room. The doctors and nurses lift him up and place on the table. One of the doctors inserts a plastic tube in his mouth even as an electrocardiogram is attached to his chest.

"Okay, it's in," says the doctor. "I've got breath sounds."

"Blood pressure is at sixty Pel," says a nurse.

"Clothes off," says a medic.

"Pressure's dropping."

Jason's mind shifts from the operating room.

_It is Saturday morning. He is in the living room of his old home in Harrison, New York. _

"Pressure is forty Pel."

"_Look at that," says Evan, watching the television show _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_. "That is cool."_

The doctors watch the blood pressure monitor.

"Damn it, his pressure's still dropping!"

_Jason's bedroom. His wife, Andrea, appearing to be in her early thirties. _

"_I really have to tell you something," she says. _

"He's fibrillating," says a doctor.

An emergency nurse straps tape to his chest.

"Clear!" a doctor says as the paddles are applied to his chest, delivering an electrical shock.

_Images flash by. Of his life, memories of the current timelines and of timelines that once were. _

"Flatline. Get me epinephrine**."**

A doctor takes a syringe full of epinephrine, sticking the needle right into Jason's heart. "It's in," he says.

"No pulse," says another doctor, looking at the flat line on the electrocardiogram.

"Let's shock him one more time and then quit."

The paddles are applied, and Jason's chest convulses. More images flash by in his mind. Sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and touches.

"We have a pulse."

Oooooooooooooo

A telephone rings, and a three hundred pound spiky-haired young man going by the name of Thumper answers the telephone.

"Yo, Evan!" he calls out. "For you! It's your mom."

"Okay," replies Evan Treborn. He walks to the desk in the dorm room he shares with Thumper and places the receiver by his head.

"Hi, Mom," says Evan. "When are you coming to help pick up my stuff here."

"Evan," says his mother, Andrea. "Your dad, he's in the hospital."

"What? Why's he there?"

"I don't know. He collapsed in his office. He's in intensive care now."

"Mom, I have to get there."

"I'm here at the hospital. Your Aunt Meaghan can go help you unpack your stuff. I'll call you if something comes up."

"Okay." Evan hangs up the phone and sits down on his bed. He looks out at the landscape of the dormitory buildings. Some of the residents are moving their belongings to their parents' vehicles.

He bends down his head and places his hands on his face.

Oooooooooo

"The financial world was rocked today when Jason Treborn, chairman of Temporal Financial Services and one of the leading experts on the securities markets, collapsed in his office this afternoon," says a C-NBC reporter. "Doctors have not yet determined the cause of Treborn's collapse. We will bring you up to date as we get news on his condition."

Ooooooooooooooo

**December 16, 2000**

Jason lies on the bed in the intensive care unit, watched over by a nurse. Machines monitor his heartbeat and breathing. Tubes are attached to him intravaneously.

Just outside in an observation room, Andrea and Evan peer through a window. Both of them wear heavy coats over their sweaters.

"Let's go, Evan," says Andrea. "Nothing more we can do here."

They leave the intensive care unit and head through hallways and elevators to the exit.

In the lobby Andrea sees a man wearing a heavy coat over his torso and a hat on his head. She recognizes him as Bob Schnaufer, the CEO of Jason's company.

"Mr. Schnaufer," says Andrea.

"Hi, Mrs. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer. "I know this is tough. How is Mr. Treborn doing?"

"Only immediate family is allowed," says Andrea. "Please, Mr. Schnaufer."

"I only ask that you contact me at my office if something comes up. I've worked with your husband for twelve years now."

"Okay, Mr. Schnaufer. Evan or I could do that."

"Thank you, Mrs. Treborn. May God bless you."

Schnaufer turns around, leaving through the main entrance.

Ooooooooooo

**December 17, 2000**

Jason awakes, and the first thing he sees is white. He notices something firm pressing on his back.

He knows that he is not home.

"Hi there," says a nurse, clad in white. "You're awake. You're at a hospital in White Plains."

"How did I get here?" asks Jason. Last thing he remembers, he was in his office.

"You collapsed in your office. You were in a coma for over a day."

"How?" asks the forty-one-year-old business magnate.

"We need to run some more tests. I can go get the doctor."

Minutes later, a man wearing a white coat enters the hospital room.

"Mr. Treborn," he says. "Dr. Weltman."

"So what happened?" asks Jason.

"We are not sure yet. I suspect it's stress from your job. There are some tests we can do right now." Dr. Weltman waves a Bic pen around. "So you can see, at least."

"And hear and talk," replies Jason. "What about my personal belongings?"

"Your wife picked them up. Now I want you to wiggle your fingers. Can you do it?"

Jason extends his arm, and then moves each of the fingers of his hand. "Okay."

"Do you feel any numbness?"

"No."

"Now wiggle your toes."

Jason extends a foot, moving each of his ten toes.

"At least you still have basic motor functions."

"What now?"

"We've drawn blood and sent it to the labs for analysis," replies Weltman. "I think a CAT scan is in order."

"CAT scan?"

"Computed axial tomography. We take X-ray images from various angles to create a 3-D image."

"Sure," says Jason.

Twenty minutes later, Jason is wheeled in a wheelchair to a huge room with all sorts of huge, fancy equipment.

"Just lie down here, Mr. Treborn," says the doctor. "Stay still, please."

Jason lies down on this bed-sized platform, which moves him until his head is inside the apparatus. A technicians then presses some buttons on a console, and there is this humming sound. Jason lies inside the machine for a few minutes.

"We're done, Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Weltman. "You can check out of the hospital now. I do advise you take a few weeks off."

"A few weeks off?" asks Jason. "I have my company to run."

"I'm sure it can run without you having to be there every day," says the doctor. "Besides, the Christmas season is coming up."

"Sure," says Jason.

Oooooooooooo

The black Lincoln Continental pulls up to the driveway of the Treborn home. Andrea Treborn shuts off the engine of the car.

"You haven't said a word since we left the hospital," says Andrea.

"It's just that I've been through a lot," says Jason. "and now I'm being told that I have to take leave from the company."

"The doctor's right, you know. Besides, Christmas is next week."

"You know how it is, Andrea. I don't start my Christmas break until Christmas Eve."

"Well, you're starting your Christmas break right now."

"Sure," says Jason, pulling the inside handle of the car door.

"I know that this coma has something to do with your flashbacks," says Andrea.

"Why would you say that?" asks her husband. "It could have been stress from work, like the doctor said."

"Who else can travel back in time by looking at pictures?" says Andrea. "And who knows exactly what that can do to a person?"

"It's how I make a living," stresses Jason.

"We have enough, Jason. I think we can get along fine for a few weeks without you trying to give yourself tomorrow's stock prices."

"You..you're just trying to hinder me."

Andrea steps out of the Continental. "Evan just got back home from college. I think we should spend at least some time with him."

"Okay," says Jason, stepping out of the car and walking towards the house.

Ooooooooooooo

**December 21, 2000**

Jason and Andrea enter the hospital in White Plains. An orderly tells them where they can meet with Dr. Weltman.

The two of them enter a small office. It has stuff typical of doctor's office – a personal computer, a Rolodex, diplomas hanging on the office walls.

And there is a CAT scan picture on the desk.

"So what is this about?" asks Jason.

"The CAT scan picture," says Dr. Weltman, sitting behind the desk. "We found something unusual."

"Yeah, I heard that over the phone. Why couldn't we discuss this over the phone?"

"I thought it best for you to see this. Don't worry; I'm not charging extra for this visit."

"What's wrong with him?" asks Andrea.

"We've compared your husband's brain scan with that of other patients. Take a look."

Jason looks at the scan of his brain as well as that of other CAT scans. "I notice something different."

"What we've discovered, Mr. Treborn, was hemorrhaging of the outer lining of the cerebral cortex."

"You mean…you mean I had a stroke?" asks Jason.

"It would seem like it. It is unusual, since your cholesterol count is actually below average. We could do another test on the blood drawn from you, in case the lab missed any toxin. However, I do not have the expertise to know exactly what happened. I do know of a specialist. Dr. Harlon Redfield, at the Sunnyvale Institution up north."

"I know him. He treated my grandfather. I…I remember visiting there when I was younger."

"I see," says Dr. Weltman, curious. "I'll send a copy of the CAT-scan to him. It might take a while for results to come back. Anyway, enjoy the holiday seasons."

"We're visiting his brother in California," says Andrea. "Have a nice Christmas."

"You too, Mrs. Treborn and Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Weltman.

Ooooooooooooo

**December 25, 2000**

"If there's one thing that's great," says Evan Treborn, holding a cup filled with ice and Coca-cola, "we don't need any damn snow chains here."

He sits on a couch in the living room of the home of his Uncle Scott and Aunt Dana in Tustin, California. It is spacious, thought not as spacious as the living room in his parents' home. He, his parents, his grandfather, and his Aunt Meaghan are gathering here to celebrate Christmas. A Christmas tree with lights and decorations.

"You want snow, Big Bear's two hours away," says his cousin, Nick.

"So, you all right?" asks Scott. "Andrea called me about you ending up in the hospital."

"I think so," replies Jason, stabbing at a slice of roast beef with a plastic fork. "It was a mild stroke. The doctors want some more test, you know how that's like."

"Definitely. You know, you were right about getting out of those Internet stocks months ago."

"Of course."

Scott then walks across the room, holding his eight-month-old grandson, dressed in a red outfit and a red pointed hat.

"So how do you like your first Christmas?" he asks the baby boy.

"I can take the picture," says Jason. He then takes the picture with a Nikon digital camera.

A few hours later, Jason goes to the bathroom. Flushing the toilet and then washing his hands at the sink, he hears the door open.

"Dad," he says.

"I know what caused the stroke," says Chris Treborn. "It happened after you had a flashback, right?"

Jason looks into his father's eyes. "Well, yeah. I had to do it, though. My company was going to lose almost a billion dollars. Two thirds of my net worth was at stake."

"Your life and sanity are at stake every time you flash back," says Chris. "Not only that, you could erase everything you've built. The next time you go back, you could die of a stroke in the past, possibly erasing your life up to now."

"I'm not going to go that far back," says Jason. "I haven't done so since my initial test flashbacks."

He leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

One minute later, Chris stands in the hallway. He starts pondering if he should flash back and warn Jason back when Jason started using flashbacks.

_No, Jason's life is okay _now.

Chris watches the party, sipping on a Corona beer. Jason and Andrea stand under a sprig of mistletoe, Scott and Dana sit on a couch together, and his granddaughter Chrissy plays with her son as her husband Roland watches.

He can feel the temptation to use a flashback to return to his beloved Lucinda.

And yet, he knows flashbacks have too great a price.

_I can dream of you, though. I can see you, hear you, smell you, and touch you there._

Oooooooooo

**January 9, 2001**

The Sunnyvale Institution looks pretty much the same as it did back in 1948, when it was first opened. Only this time, snow covers the ground and the trees are bare with leaves.

"Thank God there wasn't a snowstorm," says Jason.

"Remember that blizzard a few years back," says Andrea. "We were stuck in that mansion?"

"How could I forget?"

He enters the place where his grandfather spent the last years of his life. He is immediately led to Dr. Harlon Redfield's office.

"These results are interesting," says Redfield.

"Dr. Weltman told me that I had a stroke," says Jason. "A hemorrhage in the part of the brain where the memories are stored."

"There's more than that, Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Redfield. "It seems that there is massive neural reconstruction."

"Reconstruction?" asks Andrea. "His brain's healing?"

"It seems that a lot of memories are jammed into your husband's brain," says Dr. Redfield. "Many, many more memories than that typically found in a man about forty years old. Which is remarkable, since your husband had been a patient here during his childhood due to memory problems."

"Are there any cases like this?" asks Jason.

"Your grandfather. We've taken scans over the years, and that his scans look just like the one Dr. Weltman sent me. Take a look."

Jason and Andrea look at the scans. One is labeled "TREBORN, J., the other is labeled "TREBORN, M."

"I see," says Jason.

"This could be some sort of genetic neurological disorder," says Redfield. "Is there any history of mental illness in your family, aside from your grandfather?"

"I think so," says Jason. "There were a couple relatives and ancestors who were committed."

"Then I suggest that you contact as many of your relatives as you can, urge them to have a CAT-scan."

"Could our son Evan have this disorder?" asks Andrea.

"I can't rule it out, Mrs. Treborn," says Redfield. "Mr. Treborn, we would like to run some more tests in our laboratories here."

"Sure thing, Doc," replies Jason.

Ooooooooooooo

**January 29, 2001**

Hearing some footsteps, Renee Dobson, executive secretary at Temporal Financial Services Headquarters, looks up from the screen of the Power Macintosh.

"Mr. Treborn?" she asks, seeing a man in his early forties, wearing a long, heavy winter coat over a business suit.

"That's me," says Jason Treborn. "Good morning, Dobson. Is Mr. Schnaufer available?"

"Yes, sir, he is in his office."

Jason walks along the corridor, entering the office of the company's CEO. He enters the office, which is a little smaller than his own, with the same black tiles on the floor.

"Mr. Treborn?" asks Bob Schnaufer, sitting behind his desk.

"I'm back, Schnaufer," says Jason. "Let's organize a staff meeting to keep me up to date."

"Good to see you back on your feet, sir."

Jason then meets with his staff for over forty minutes. After that, he walks into his office, turning on the computer. He had not sat here on this chair, behind this desk, in this office for six weeks now.

He takes a Nikon digital camera from the drawer of his desk. He looks at it, mulling if he should take a picture and upload it into the Power Macintosh.

_What the hell; I'll only use this in case of emergency._

Jason takes the picture.


	14. Inheritance

**April 9, 2001**

"How was work, honey?" Andrea Treborn asks her husband as she stands on the tiled floor inside their kitchen.

"Great," replies Jason Treborn, putting his arms around his wife's waist. "I had some meetings, and tomorrow I have to fly to Houston to meet with some business executives."

"The one in Texas?"

"Of course."

"How are you feeling?" asks Andrea, sitting down on a chair next to the kitchen table.

"Fine. I haven't had headaches or numbness or anything."

"Remember, Jason. No more flashbacks."

"Sure thing. Maybe you can come with me to Houston. To leave you in this big house, all by yourself, especially since Evan's off to college on his own?"

"I can spend time with my friends here. Maybe even drive to Pennsylvania to see my parents."

Jason nods, having last seen Andrea's parents the previous Thanksgiving.

Ooooooooooooo

**June 4, 2001**

"Now sit still, Mr. Treborn," says Dr. Harlon Redfield as he watches the CAT-scan machine.

The scan is taken, and Scott Treborn is wheeled out.

"Why do we have to do this again?" asks Scott, who is visiting relatives in the area with his wife, Dana. "I got better things to do, you know."

"They say that strokes run in families, Mr. Treborn," says Redfield. "Your father was here last week. And your sister was here two days ago."

"Anything wrong with them?"

"Not that I can detect," replies the doctor. "In any event, I do want to ask you a question."

"What?" asks Scott, clutching Dana's hand.

"Have you had flashbacks?"

"Flashbacks?" asks Scott. "What would be strange about that? Other people have flashbacks, you know."

"Come on, Mr. Treborn," says Redfield.

"Well, there was one time, I think. I was watching a video of my daughter's wedding, and it was as if I was actually there."

"Any other flashbacks that you can recall?"

"Uh, no."

Dr. Redfield scribbles notes onto a yellow notepad. "That will be all. And I strongly advise that you bring your children here."

Redfield leaves the Sunnyvale lab, going to his office. He views some of his reports that he had created using Microsoft Word.

He has an idea about what is happening; he will need test results from an outside lab.

Oooooooooooooo

**June 5, 2001**

"I want to thank you all for coming to celebrate our 20th anniversary," says Andrea, looking at the eighty-plus people in the ballroom. "We have been through a lot; we are going to make it."

"May you have many more," says Chris Treborn.

Jason and Andrea stand in front of a long table covered in a tablecloth. In front of them are relatives from all across the country, gathered into this hotel ballroom in Rye, New York. It has been a long twenty years of marriage. There are so many great memories.

The two of them dance on the varnished wooden dance floor about an hour later. The same song that played during their fist dance as husband and wife now plays. Their hearts pace together, feeling close. It is still the same feeling that existed twenty years ago, now with twenty years of memories.

After the song is done, Jason leads Andrea off the dance floor. Andrea sits back on her seat.

What could take the past twenty years away?

oooooooooo

**July 17, 2001**

Dr. Redfield opens the manila envelope and reads the report from the lab.

_This is interesting_, he thinks.

The doctor opens an Adobe document on his Power Macintosh G4. The document has a chart that he himself made, listing the known descendants of Matthew Treborn.

Redfield had ordered several CAT-scans, both from test subjects and from his staff as a control. Two of the subjects, Matt and Jason, had massive neural reconstruction in the outer lining of the cerebral cortex. Some of the other subjects had some neural reconstruction in that part of the brain, though not as pronounced as Matt's or Jason's, and still other test subjects had scans not much different from the control subjects.

The DNA testing results had confirmed a certain genetic marker in the Y-chromosome from some of the subjects who were tested here but not others.

_It confirmed my suspicion. _

Chris, his sons Scott and Jason, and his grandson Evan all test positive for this genetic marker. However, one of Matt's other grandsons, who was born from one of Matt's daughters and was available for testing, tested _negative._ Obviously, this trait was passed from father to son.

Still, there was a question of what this genetic marker could lead to. Matt Treborn had a stroke and suffered from permanent, short-term memory loss at the age of fifty-two, never remembering anything that happened after that. Chris, however, suffered nothing of the sort even after seventy-four years of life.

_Perhaps another factor is involved. Matt's the only one I know of who is institutionalized. If only there was a larger sample. _

Redfield is treading new ground. The vocabulary to describe what is happening does not even exist.

Ooooooooooooooooo

**October 23, 2001**

"According to your chief financial officer," says Jason, on a conference call with other major investors, "you reduced your assets by over one billion to correct an accounting error on your Raptor partnerships. Furthermore, the SEC is conducting an inquiry into your accounting practices- that is what your company admitted. Isn't there a conflict of interest?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Treborn," says Kenneth Lay, chairman and chief executive officer of Enron, an energy trading company based in Houston, Texas. "There is no conflict of interest; the directors continue to have the highest faith and confidence in Mr. Fastow."

"But the inquiry," says another investor.

"It is standard procedure. There was an accounting error and they investigate."

"And what about your former CEO, Jeffrey Skilling?' asks another investor.

"Those were for personal reasons."

The conference call goes on for quite some time. Jason then hangs up by pressing the speaker button on the phone.

"So what do you think?" Jason asks Bob Schnaufer, who is sitting across from him.

"They're an energy trading company, and everyone needs energy," answers Schnaufer. "They have a solid business record. One little accounting error isn't gonna cause problems."

Ooooooooooo

**November 28, 2001**

The staff of Temporal Financial Services all meet inside the conference room on the 27th floor of the Temporal Financial Services building.

Jason sits down on the leather seat at the end of the table. "Just today, it was revealed that Enron inflated its financial statements, hiding its debts and losses," he says. "As a result, share prices for the company dropped below one dollar. Our mutual funds invested quite a large sum of money into Enron, money that is now gone."

"This is a perfect opportunity for a takeover!" says one of the executives, a fresh-faced man in his mid-twenties. "We should contact other investors, buy out the company, and replace the management. We could still make money off of this."

"Oh, please," says another executive, an older man wearing an expensive-looking suit. "I read that they are going to file bankruptcy. All of their assets are gonna be sold to pay off debts. I mean, Dynegy withdrew its offer to buy out Enron."

"And now I'm going to have to explain this to the directors," says Jason. "They all e-mailed me, telling me they are flying here to White Plains to conduct a board meeting."

He looks at some articles that he had printed from the Hewlett Packard LaserJet printer in his office. They are all about Enron. He reads an article, dated October 31, about the Securities and Exchange Commission launching a formal inquiry into Enron's accounting practices. On November 8, Enron announced that it had overstated its profits by five hundred eighty six million dollars over five years. Dynegy had offered to acquire Enron for nine billion on November 9, and had just retracted its offer today.

Today is when the shit hit the fan. The news about the extent of Enron's accounting practices became public 10:30 A.M.

"Meeting is adjourned," says Jason, picking up the articles. "Mr. Schnaufer, meet me in my office."

Bob Schnaufer follows Jason into his office, sitting on a leather chair in front of the chairman's desk.

"Those bastards!" yells Jason. "How could they do this? Now I'm gonna have to explain this to the board."

"It's okay, sir," says Schnaufer. "We trusted them, and they broke it."

"The board will probably fire me for being suckered by them. They were jealous, jealous of my success. That's why they wanted to screw me over. They wanted to destroy my company! They wanted to ruin me!"

"Not just you, Mr. Treborn."

"Do you know how much of my personal assets were invested into Enron?" asks Jason.

"Sir, I've been in contact with some lawyers in the city," says Schnaufer. "We're gonna sue the fuck out of them."

"You handle things with the lawyers, Schnaufer. Dismissed."

Schnaufer leaves Jason's office. Jason immediately opens a folder in his Power Macintosh G4. He opens a file for a picture he had taken in January, when he had returned to work after recovering from his stroke.

_This could be dangerous._

Then again, it had been nearly a year since he had a flashback.

He stares into the picture, and his office seems to vibrate.

Ooooooooooo

**January 29, 2001**

Jason finds himself holding the digital camera. He looks outside the window of his office; there is snow piled on the sidewalks.

He immediately opens the TeachText program to create a new text document.

_From: November 28, 2001_

_To: January 29, 2001_

_Make sure to sell your Enron holdings; the company will end up on the verge of bankruptcy._

_From the future,_

Jason Treborn 

Jason saves the text document, as well as the JPEG file of the picture that his younger self had just taken minutes ago. All he has to do is wait, his younger self should be able to read the message, since the computer will still be here for eleven more months.

ooooooooooo

**November 28, 2001**

Jason clutches his head upon flashing forward just one day shy of eleven months. Using a handkerchief, he wipes blood off of his nose.

After a minute, the headache clears.

He uses the computer to access the history of his company's financial transactions.

_I did it! _

By the time Jason sets foot inside his mansion, he had already buried the flashback deep into his memories.

Ooooooooooo

**March 5, 2002**

Finishing his bowl of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, Jason puts the bowl in the sink. He is already dressed in his three-piece business suit, with expensive Gucci loafers on his feet.

"I'd better get going now," he says, looking at his Guess watch. "Got a couple of morning meetings."

"Remember we're going out to dinner to celebrate Evan's birthday," says Andrea.

Jason kisses Andrea, grabs his overcoat from the closet in the living room, and then gets into his 1995 Lincoln Continental. A few minutes later, he parks the car into his assigned parking spot at Temporal Financial Services.

He gets out, feeling the brisk air. A handful of people wearing overcoats enter through the glass doors of the building.

Jason makes his way towards the entrance.

"Excuse me," says a male voice.

Jason turns and sees several men wearing overcoats over business coat.

"May I help you?" asks the Temporal Financial Services chairman.

The man takes out a piece of leather and shows a metallic badge. "FBI," he says, "Jason Treborn, you are under arrest for insider trading, fraud, and conspiracy to commit fraud. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. If you can not afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

Handcuffs are placed on Jason's wrists before he is placed inside a blue Ford Crown Victoria.


	15. Endgame

March 5, 2002 

At the FBI office, Jason is photographed, holding a plaque bearing his name and prisoner number. He is then placed in a van and driven to the United States District courthouse on Quarropas Street in White Plains.

The FBI agents and the United States marshals escort him into one of the courtrooms. It is large, with rows of seats in the front for observers and reporters. Behind the rows of seats are tables for the prosecution and defense, the judge's bench, and the witness seat.

The judge, a man in his early sixties, sits behind the judge's bench, the seal of the United States District Court, Southern District of New York behind him.

"Mr. Treborn is charged with insider trading, fraud, and conspiracy to commit fraud," says an assistant United States attorney standing in front of the prosecution's table. "We recommend five million dollars bail."

"Five million dollars?" asks Jason.

"Do you have anything to say, Mr. Treborn?" asks the judge.

"Your Honor, I have ties to the community. My company is right here in White Plains. I am not a flight risk."

"No, you are not, Mr. Treborn. Setting bail at five million will give you incentive to stay here. Therefore, bail is set at five million."

"I can have it paid by the afternoon, sir."

As Jason is escorted out of the courthouse, he sees a gaggle of reporters from various newspapers and news networks standing right on the sidewalk. CNN, MS-NBC, FOX News are all there.

"I have no comment," says Jason.

Ooooooooooooo

"Okay, Mr. Treborn," says the voice. "We can make an appointment first thing tomorrow morning, say, at 9:30?"

"Okay," replies Jason, before hanging up the telephone in his kitchen. He had been on the phone with one of the most prestigious law firms in Manhattan.

"So when are you meeting with the lawyer?" asks Andrea, holding a can of Coca-cola in her left hand.

"Tomorrow morning," replies Jason. He walks to the living room and turns on the Philips plasma television.

"A grand jury had just delivered a bill of indictment against financial analyst Jason Treborn in connection with the Enron scandal," says an MS-NBC news anchor. "The chairman of Temporal Financial Services, based in White Plains, New York, was indicted for insider trading, fraud, and conspiracy to commit fraud, and was arrested by the FBI this morning. The U.S. attorney's office has stated it will continue the investigation and may file further charges as more evidence is found."

Andrea turns off the television with a remote control. "Just let it go."

"Let it go?" asks Jason. "I was _indicted_! I could face prison time."

"You can just talk to the lawyer tomorrow."

"No. I can make sure this never happens."

"Don't do it."

"Don't do it?" her husband asks, incredulously. "I'm facing _criminal charges_! There'll probably be lawsuits against me; my reputation is already destroyed. That was what it was all about. They did that to me because I was successful! If I can go back to warn myself…"

"At least wait," says Andrea. "The trial will probably start next year or something. You're free on bail. You can decide what to do when you are arraigned. Anyway, let's just get ready for dinner with Evan tonight. We won't discuss the indictment."

"Okay, then," says Jason. "I'll make sure not to think about it too much."

Ooooooooooooooo

Evan Treborn celebrates his twentieth birthday at a Red Lobster restaurant not far from his college campus. His parents and his nineteen-year-old friend Lenny Kagan sit with him around this wooden table. The place is nearly full, even though it is a Tuesday evening.

"So, how is school going?" asks Jason, picking up a french fry and dipping it into some ketchup.

"Great," replies Evan. "I'm studying memory in my Psychology class. Carter's a great professor."

"Memory?" asks Andrea.

"Yeah, it's interesting. I heard what happened with my great-grandpa, why he could not form new memories after he had that stroke. I'm gonna be experimenting with flatworms. You know, if you teach a flatworm something and another flatworm eats it, the memories are assimilated into the flatworm that ate the other flatworm."

"My appetite went down," says Lenny. "Maybe you should study how appetite works. Anyway, Mr. Treborn, how is work going?"

"Work?" asks Jason.

"Jason," says Andrea. "My husband is very busy, Lenny."

"Oh," replies Lenny, who obviously never saw the news reports.

"Everything will be fine, Dad," says Evan.

"I think I can figure a way out of this," he replies.

Ooooooooooooo

**March 6, 2002**

Jason steps off an elevator in a tall office building in midtown Manhattan. He walks down the hall, towards one of the offices.

"Excuse me," he says to the receptionist. "My name is Jason Treborn. I am here to see Wayne Fox."

"Okay, sir," says the receptionist. She picks up the phone and dials a number. "A Jason Treb-urn is here to see you, sir." She then looks at Jason. "He will be right with you, sir."

Less than a minute later, a man wearing a three-piece suit enters the reception area.

"Wayne Fox," he says to Jason, extending his hand.

"I understand you were an assistant U.S. attorney," says Jason.

"I have experience prosecuting white-collar crime, Mr. Treborn," says Fox. "I even helped Rudy Guiliani take down Michael Milken and Ivan Boesky. I'm the best qualified to defend. Come into my office."

Jason follows Fox into a spacious office. The view allows Jason to see the street below, with cars and trucks moving along like sheep.

"So you know about this case?" asks Jason.

"It was on every network," replies Fox, sitting on the leather chair behind his desk. "I also did research into the whole Enron case."

"So what do we do?"

"The first thing I need, Mr. Treborn, is the entire story. Tell me _everything_ about you and your company's dealings with Enron. From what I have read, you did sell off all your shares of Enron stock during the month of February of 2001."

"Okay then," says Jason. "This will be hard for you to believe." Jason goes on to explain everything.

"I see," says Wayne Fox. "I believe a psychiatric evaluation is in order."

"I'm not crazy!" protests Jason. "It is true. How else could I have made my fortune, except by sending investment tips to my younger self?"

"A psychiatrist might be able to tell you," says the lawyer. "If you are insane, I could have the trial delayed indefinitely."

"And lock me up in a mental hospital? Do you know what this would do to my reputation? Everyone will think of me as some crazy man! I'm not going to plead insane."

"So how exactly do you intend to show that you can send messages to your younger self?" asks Fox. "A jury is not going to buy that. That is just too much."

"I showed it to Andrea, I can demonstrate it to a jury."

"Well, I'm going to subpoena documents from the U.S. attorney's office, the SEC, and Enron. Let's hope it does not come down to convincing a jury that you receive investment tips from the future."

Ooooooooooo

Jason returns from Manhattan to his mansion in Rye. He sits down on the couch, brooding about what is happening.

_They're trying to destroy you. They are jealous of you, so they want to destroy you. They all got together and hatched this scheme to destroy you, to tear you down. _

Jason knows he can go back and warn himself.

_I have to wait, though. Gather more information. _

He struggles in his mind to resist the temptation to go back before all the facts are in.

He walks to the Power Macintosh G4 in his bedroom. Looking at the Yahoo! Web page via Netscape Navigator, he sees links referring to his indictment and arrest. Already, news commentators have made comments on the case.

He then selects the Temporal Financial Services web site on the Bookmarks menu. He sees an important bulletin.

Due to pending criminal charges against TFS Chairman Jason Treborn, the board of directors is convening today to select a new chairman to lead the company during this time.

Jason becomes furious. _How dare they do this! How dare they take my company away from me? It was them all along! They were the ones who engineered the indictment!_

Minutes later, he is inside the black Lincoln Continental, driving towards White Plains.

Oooooooooooo

"Thanks you," says the thirty-three-year-old man standing before the men, all dressed in their suits. "As chairman I will make sure to take care of the company, and I will guarantee this company's full cooperation to the authorities in regards to the criminal case against Jason Treborn."

"Thank you, Mr. Schnaufer," says one of the directors, a man twenty years his senior. "Now let us discuss the company's connection with the Enron case."

The doors to the Temporal Financial Services Headquarters boardroom are opened.

"Mr. Treborn," says Bob Schnaufer.

"What's the meaning of this?" Jason demands.

"We are selecting a new chairman," says a director.

"A new _chairman_? I _made _this company. This company is _mine_! How dare you take it away from me!"

"Mr. Treborn, we can't have someone with outstanding securities fraud charges serving as chairman of this board. Besides, Mr. Schnaufer will be a capable chairman. He ran the company while you were recuperating from your stroke. We're not saying you're guilty, we just need someone else at the top."

"It was _you_," Jason says to Schnaufer. "_You_ set the whole thing up with Enron."

"Mr. Treborn, please," says Schnaufer.

"You were behind the whole thing. You were trying to take me down so you could have the company yourself, you motherfucker! I..I won't let you get away with this!"

Jason pulls out a Colt Python .357 magnum revolver. Aiming the short barrel of the pistol at Schnaufer, he pulls back the hammer and pulls the trigger. The hammer strikes the percussion cap of the .357 cartridge, detonating the primer which then detonates the gunpowder. The bullet is forced out of the barrel at very high velocity, first making contact with one of the buttons on Schnaufer's white shirt, then tearing through skin, bone, cardiac muscle, and more bone before blasting out through the back, with bits of skin, muscle, and bone tissue following it. Bob Schnaufer lies on the ground, the blood spreading on the black marble tiles.

Jason then aims the Python at the directors. _Bang!_ The bullets are fired, tearing through the human bodies. The others dive under the table. Once the chambers of the Python's cylinder is empty, Jason leaves the boardroom and walks to his office, the Colt Python in his hand.

Oooooooooooooo

White Plains Police Bureau cars drive down Main Street, their emergency lights flashing. They stop at the Temporal Financial Services building. An ambulance from the White Plains Fire Bureau also stops in the parking lot, and Fire Bureau paramedics get out.

An armored van arrives at the scene. SWAT officers, wearing vests and helmets and carrying weapons like Remington shotguns and Heckler and Koch MP5's race out of the van. The SWAT team walks into the lobby.

"We're evacuating this building," says the SWAT lieutenant.

Upon hearing his voice, people file out of the lobby and the Wells Fargo bank adjacent to it.

The SWAT officers make their way to the Temporal Financial Services penthouse office suite. They search through the offices.

"Oh shit," says a SWAT sergeant. He looks at the bodies lying down on the floor in the boardroom.

"We have this area secure," says the lieutenant. "Get the paramedics up here!"

Another officer walks down the hall from the boardroom towards another set of double doors. Turning the handle, he finds that the door is locked.

"Anyone in there?" he asks. "This is the police!"

"Don't come in!" yells a voice. "I have a gun!"

"Listen, we're here to help. We'll protect you from the shooter."

"I'm not coming out!"

"We can get you out, sir."

"What's going on?" asks the lieutenant.

"Someone's hiding in this office, sir," says the officer. "He has a gun. He's afraid to come out."

"He might be the shooter," says the lieutenant.

Ooooooooooooo

"As you can see here," says a television reporter, "the White Plains police have blocked off this area of downtown and have evacuated the Temporal Financial Services building. We have been told that there is a shooting. There is no word on casualties."

Oooooooooo

A Toyota Avalon stops right at the police barricade on Main Street. Andrea Treborn steps out of the driver's side of the vehicle. It is dark now, the light coming from the street lamps.

"This way," a police officer says to her.

Andrea is escorted to the parking lot, now an encampment for the White Plains Police Bureau. High-intensity light bulbs light up the parking lot.

"Mrs. Treborn," says the police chief, "we have a line. There's a man hiding in your husband's office."

"Is Jason in there?" she asks.

"We don't know, ma'am. We'd like you to talk to him."

Andrea picks up a cordless handset provided by another police officer.

"Hello?' asks a voice.

"Is that you, Jason?" she asks. "It's me, Andrea."

"Yes, it's me," says Jason. "I'm scared."

"Just drop your gun and surrender to the police. They won't hurt you."

"Oh they will. After what I did."

Oooooooooo

"Police have confirmed that Jason Treborn has barricaded himself inside his office," says a news reporter. "His wife, Andrea Treborn, is on the scene. The police have a phone line into the building."

Ooooooooooo

A SWAT officer walks down into the dimly-lit basement of the building.

Ooooooooooo

"Jason, just give yourself up," says Andrea. "Please, we'll get through this."

"I can make sure this never happens," replies Jason.

"No! Don't you see? _That_ was what caused all of this!"

"You're the one who doesn't see! I have complete mastery over time and space! I can change any event I want! I am three steps, no three billion light-years ahead of fate."

"Jason, no!"

Jason drops the phone and clicks on the computer screen with the mouse. He opens the folder containing pictures dated from January of 2001.

He double-clicks the icon for the JPEG document dated January 29, 2001.

_I have to go back to give myself a message. _

Seeing his face on the screen of the Power Macintosh G4, he looks into it, staring deeply.

And then everything goes dark.

"What?" he asks. He finds that the Power Macintosh is off. He presses the triangle button on the keyboard to turn it on, but the computer does not respond.

He looks outside the window, seeing the police cars blocking Main Street, and the helicopters circling.

Ooooooooooo

"Police have now cut power to the building," says a CNN reporter standing in the parking lot. "They are still trying to negotiate with Mr. Treborn to get him to surrender. Once again, the White Plains police is at a standoff with Jason Treborn, following a shooting at the offices of his company."

Ooooooooo

A Honda squeals to a stop just before the police barricade, and Evan Treborn steps out.

"What's going on?" he asks.

"Step back, kid," says a police officer.

"Evan!" yells Andrea.

"Mom!" he yells back. "Where's Dad?"

"He's in his office," she replies. "He's holed up there. He won't come out."

"Maybe you can talk to him," says the White Plains police chief.

Evan is handed the cordless handset.

"Dad," he says.

"Evan," says Jason. "It's you."

"What happened, Dad?"

"They tried to take away my company. This whole thing. The whole Enron thing. It was a scheme to take my company away from me. I had to do it. I had to stop them from taking my company away."

"Dad, listen," says Evan. "Just lay on the ground and surrender."

"Don't you see, Evan? I'm ruined. My whole life turned to shit. The only way I can fix it is to go back!"

"So come back to us now."

"You don't understand. Have you ever had flashbacks?"

"Flashbacks?" asks Evan, confused. "What's this about?"

"I'll let you in on a secret, one I only told your mother. I can flash back to earlier times. Your grandpa could do it too, as did my grandpa. And I think you can do it, too. You see, if I look into a picture of my past, it is a gateway to the past."

"Just give up."

"Evan, you've got to get me something. A photo album. Go home and get the photo album. It's under my bed. Bring it to my office."

"What do you want a photo album for?" asks Evan.

"So I could stop this from ever happening!" yells Jason.

"When I bring you the photo album, you'll give up, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay!" yells the police chief. "I need an escort for this young man."

"What?' asks Evan.

"You can get a photo album for him, right?" asks the chief.

"Okay."

Andrea sees Evan leave the parking lot, going towards his car.

"What's happening?" she asks.

"Ma'am, your husband agreed to surrender if we brought him his photo album," answers the chief.

"No!" yells Andrea. "You can't let him get that. That's what caused all of this!"

"We have things under control, ma'am."

"That photo album could kill him!"

ooooooooooo

Evan stops his Honda in the driveway of his parents' mansion, and two Ford Crown Victorias from the White Plain Police Bureau park alongside the car. Evan runs into the mansion where he spent three years of his life.

He makes his way to his parents' bedroom. He peers under the bed, seeing some old magazines.

He pulls out a binder. Looking through it, he can see dated pictures, of his father, his mother, and himself, dating all the way from 1981 to 2001.

He runs out the mansion. "I got it!" he yells to the police officer.

Placing the photo album into the passenger seat of his Honda, he drives off towards White Plains, escorted by police cars.

Oooooooooooo

Andrea sees her son walking towards the Temporal Financial Services building, escorted by police officers.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Dad wants me to bring him his photo album," replies Evan.

"No, that was what caused all of his problems! Give me that!"

"Ma'am, we have the situation under control," says a police officer.

"Evan, please," pleads Andrea. "your father is going to use it to travel to the past. He might get permanent brain damage, or he might screw things up even more!"

"Mom, what are you talking about?" asks Evan, confused about his mother's words.

Andrea lunges for the photo album, trying to wrest it away from her son. The struggle only lasts for two seconds. The butt of a Remington M1100 shotgun, swung by a White Plains police officer, makes hard contact with her face and she slumps on the ground.

"Mom!" yells Evan.

"Let's get that photo album to your dad," says the police officer.

Evan enters the Temporal Financial Services building, escorted by police officers. Because the elevators are down due to lack of electrical power, Evan climbs up the stairs. Two, three, four. He keeps climbing up and up like a mountaineer. Finally, he reaches the twenty-seventh floor.

He walks across the twenty-seventh floor lobby, his heart beating rapidly due to climbing all those stairs, the way lit by flashlights carried by the SWAT escort.

"I'm here with the album," says Evan.

"Good," replies the SWAT lieutenant standing in front of the door to Jason's office.

"Dad!" yells Evan. "I have the album. Walk up here and unlock the door."

"Will you let me look at the album?" calls out Jason. "I want to look at the album before I leave."

"My dad wants to look through the album," says Evan.

"Only for a minute," says the SWAT lieutenant.

Evan hears the click as the door's lock is unlocked. The door then squeaks ajar.

"Dad," says Evan.

"Just hand me the album, and I'll be out in a minute," says Jason. "I just want to look."

Jason takes the photo album. Opening it, he notices it is too dark to see.

Suddenly there is light, and Jason looks through the picture, wondering which one to use.

Suddenly he feels himself fall forward, then hears the breaking of glass. He finds out that he can not feel his legs. He feels something wet on the floor. It is his own blood.

"Dad!" yells Evan as he bursts into his father's office. He sees his father lying down on the floor, with a pool of blood spreading.

The SWAT lieutenant glares at the helicopter hovering near the building.

Jason lies on the floor. He can feel his life draining from him. He knows that his only chance to survive is in the past.

He looks at a picture of him, Andrea, and Evan, who was still a young boy at the time. He starts to feel cold. His office shimmers as the world slips away.

And he falls.

Oooooooooooo

**August 31, 1985**

Jason is greeted with bright light. He looks up and sees a clear blue sky. He can feel that he is outside, there is a slight breeze. He looks and sees children playing on a playground. He sees a Kodak camera mounted on a tripod. Looking to his right, he sees his wife Andrea, and sitting on his lap is his son Evan, three years old.

"I made it!" he says. "I'm back. I won't let those bastards ruin everything."

"What's going on?" asks Andrea, now twenty-nine years old instead of the forty-five she would be in March of 2002.

"I'm gonna make sure no one takes away my company. I just need a pen and pa-aww!"

He suddenly clutches his head, which pounds like jackhammers. Blood trickles down his nose.

He then falls forward.

"Jason!" yells Andrea. "Someone call 911!"


	16. Warning

**April 15, 1989**

Jason Treborn wakes up, noticing that he is lying down on a bed. He sets his foot on a carpeted floor.

Looking down, he notices that he is wearing some sort of outfit. Memories of his last moments suddenly surface, and he lifts up his shirt.

There is no wound nor scar on his chest or abdomen. Looking outside the window, he sees a yard enclosed by a brick wall. He wonders where he is; this place is unfamiliar.

Entering another room, he sees a sink, a toilet, and a shower. Looking into the mirror above the sink, he sees a haggard face.

He turns on a General Electric radio on the stand by the bed. The song "I Get Weak" by Belinda Carlisle plays.

_It must be at least 1988. _

On the stand with the radio is a picture of his wife and son; Jason notices that he is not in the picture.

He leaves the room, walking down the hallway. He passes a short woman also wearing a similar-colored outfit.

"Morning, Jason," she says.

"Uh, hi," says Jason. "Where am I?"

"The Sunnyvale Institution. You've been here for what, three years."

"Three years?"

"Oh yeah. You don't remember anything that happened since you came here."

Jason walks along the corridors. He recognizes the place from his time visiting his grandfather here.

He walks to a cafeteria. The food servers are already serving breakfast; Jason gets himself some Kellogg's Froot Loops. The television show _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ is shown on a mounted Sony color television.

A creeping feeling washes over him, like a tsunami crashing into a seaside village, as if something had went horribly wrong.

After washing down his breakfast with Minute Maid orange juice, an orderly in a white outfit walks up to him.

"Dr. Redfield wishes to see you," says the orderly.

"Redfield?" asks Jason.

Jason is escorted down a hallway towards one of the offices. The office that he enters is unrecognizable, but the man behind the desk looks very familiar.

"Dr. Redfield," he says.

"Hello, Jason," replies Dr. Harlon Redfield, sitting behind his leather seat. "Do you know what has happened?"

"I remember being in my office. There was this police standoff. My son, Evan, brought me my photo album."

"So you must have misplaced the note. You had a note taped to your door so you could understand what was going on, since you do not remember your time here."

"What happened?" asks Jason.

"You had a stroke on August 31, 1985," replies the psychiatrist. "You were in a coma for two months. A few days after you woke up, you were diagnosed with anterograde amnesia. It is now April 15, 1989."

"You mean I can't remember anything that happened since then?"

"That's right. You suffered permanent brain damage."

Jason is silent for a moment; the news of his condition and its implication sink into him. "You've told me this before," he says.

"Yes, I did. I was the one who made the original disgnosis when you were still recovering in the hospital in White Plains."

"I have to go back; I need my photo album."

"You don't have a photo album, Jason."

"Bullshit! I want my photo album."

"Calm down, Mr. Treborn," Redfield says in an even voice. "Please, calm down. Take a deep breath."

"Okay," replies Jason, breathing deeply. "I need to know about my family. Things are different than what I remember. If I've been here since 1985…"

"Your parents are still alive and well in Connecticut. Your dad often visits you here."

"My parent?. Oh, Mom didn't- won't – die of a stroke until '92."

"Your brother is still living with his wife, and his kids are doing fine."

"What about Andrea and Evan? Are they still living in Harrison? I know we didn't buy the mansion in Rye until '97."

"You can speak to them; they're visiting today."

"They are?"

ooooooooooooo

Seven-year-old Evan Treborn walks along the corridor in the Sunnyvale Institution, his hand tightly gripped by his mother. They both follow Dr. Redfield. Distant screams and bloodcurdling laughter make their way here.

"Dad lives here?" asks Evan.

"Not in this wing, actually," says Redfield. "No."

"Now your father may seem sleepy to you," says Andrea, "but that is just because of his medicine, okay?"

"Okay," replies her son.

Redfield escorts Evan into the Visitor's Chamber. The boy takes a seat at a long, rectangular table.

Jason Treborn is escorted into the room. He wears leg shackles and handcuffs along with his outfit. He looks and sees his son. It seems strange to him, his last memory of his son was that of a twenty-year-old man.

"It's okay," says Jason. "I won't bite."

"Uh-huh," replies Evan. "Mom says I have your eyes."

"Ever wonder what could have been?" asks Jason. "If I hadn't gotten sick?"

"Yeah."

"I know. You would have grown up to be a fine young man. But with me out of the picture, damnit!" Jason starts to get excited despite his sedation. "You have flashbacks?"

"Flashbacks?" asks the boy.

"Like, when you look at a picture, stare into it. Does anything strange happen?"

"Mom showed me a movie of me being born. It became dark. I was in this small space."

"You _are_ having these flashbacks. I was praying this curse would end with me. It must end with me."

Adrenalin overtakes the sedatives. Jason clutches his son's throat. "I love you," he says through clenched teeth.

Orderlies tackle him from both sides as Andrea rushes in to take her son.

"He has to die!" he yells, looking into his wife's eyes. "You don't understand. It's the only way to stop it!"

He feels something hard smack into his head an instant before darkness consumes him.

Oooooooooooooo

**November 23, 1989**

The deep-fried turkey is placed on top of a bed of French fries on a serving plate located in the center of a white tablecloth.

"This is awesome, Aunt Andrea," says twelve-year-old Christina Anne Treborn, taking a slice of the juicy turkey.

"Thanks, Chrissy," replies Andrea. She and Evan are visiting her parents-in-law for Thanksgiving, the first time she ever spent a holiday with them since 1984. Evan is already helping himself to a slice of the family recipe Andrea learned from her mother.

"You okay?" asks Dana Treborn, the wife of Jason's brother Scott.

"We do our best," replies Andrea. "I work as a nurse, and it's a good living combined with the insurance settlement."

"Yeah," replies Scott Treborn. "Who knows when you'll need insurance."

"So what's wrong with Uncle Jason?" asks nine-year-old Nick Treborn, who is Scott's son.

"Your uncle had a stroke and can't remember anything new," replies Andrea. "Think about not being able to remember what happened today, or what would happen from now on."

"I heard he was also talking about the future."

"Yes, he has a fantasy memory of the future."

Chris and Lucinda Treborn look around the table. "We should be thankful for what we have, now," says Chris.

Minutes later, Chris and Lucinda are inside the bedroom that they have had for decades. They were happy and grateful to spend time with their daughter-in-law and grandson on this holiday. They both remember their visits with Jason since he was committed to the Sunnyvale Institution in December of 1985, especially his conversations about the future.

Particularly unsettling for Chris is the prediction that Lucinda would die from a stroke in 1992 – three years from now. And given that Jason's other predictions, like his prediction about the 1988 World Series, with Kirk Gibson scoring the winning home run on a 3-2 count at the bottom of the ninth on Game 1 in Dodger Stadium, Chris believes that prediction without a doubt. The knowledge that his wife would die of something unpreventable in a few years places a great burden on his heart. As far as he knew, Lucinda was not told of the year nor circumstances of her future death.

"Couldn't you go back?" asks Lucinda.

"Going back could cause more problems," replies her husband. "I could end up like Jason did."

"You can't even warn him?"

"I did."

Chris pulls a drawer from the nightstand and hands a sheet of paper to Lucinda. On the paper is a note in Jason's handwriting, containing information about stock quotes from December of 1977, as well as the results of the 1977 World Series between the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Below that is a message in Chris's handwriting.

_January 1, 1986_

_Dear Jason,_

_I know that you have the power to relive your life and change things. I too have this ability, as did your grandfather Matt._

_This ability comes with a price. Continued use of this power will result in memory disorders just as it did with your grandfather. _

_This is the only warning you will ever get._

_From the future,_

_Dad_


End file.
